This Man
by lbortiz1704
Summary: When interior designer Ginny Weasley meet Harry Potter the owner of The Mansion she never imagine that her life could give a turn of 180 degree
1. Chapter 1

I rifle through the piles and piles of paraphernalia that's sprawled all over my bedroom floor. I'm going to be late. On a Friday, after being on time all week, I'm going to be late.

—Luna!— I yell frantically. Where the hell are they? I run out onto the landing and throw myself over the banister. —Luna!

I hear the familiar sound of a wooden spoon bashing the edges of a ceramic bowl as Luna appears at the bottom of the stairs. She looks up at me with a tired expression. It's an expression I've become use to recently.

—Keys! Have you seen my car keys?— I puff at her.

—They're on the coffee table where you left them last night.— She rolls her eyes, taking herself and her cake mixture back to her workshop.

I dart across the landing in a complete fluster and find my car keys under a pile of weekly glossies.

—Hiding again,— I mutter to myself, grabbing my tan belt, heels and laptop. I make my way downstairs, finding Luna in her workshop spooning cake mixture into various tins.

—You need to tidy that room, Ginny. It's a fucking mess.— she complains.

Yes, my personal organisation skills are pretty shocking, especially since I'm an interior designer, who spends all day coordinating and organising. I scoop my phone up from the chunky table and dunk my finger in Luna's cake mixture.

—I can't be brilliant at everything.

—Get out!— She bats my hand away with her spoon. —Why do you need your car, anyway?— she asks, leaning down to smooth the mixture over, her tongue resting on her bottom lip in concentration.

—I have a first consultation in Grimmauld Place, some country mansion.— I feed my belt through the belt loops of my navy pencil dress, slip my feet into my tan heels and present myself to the wall mirror.

—I thought you stuck to the city?— she asks from behind me.

I ruffle my long, red hair for a few seconds, flicking it from one side to another but give up, piling it up with a few grips instead. My dark brown eyes look tired and lack their usual sparkle. A result, no doubt, of burning the candle at both ends. I only moved in with Luna a month ago after splitting with Dean.

We're behaving like a couple of university students. My liver is screaming for a rest.

—I do. The country sector is Albus's domain. I don't know how I got landed with this.— I sweep the wand of my gloss across my lips and smack them together. —One is not partial to old English and all things proper.— I give Luna a kiss on the cheek. —It's going to be painful, I know it. Luv ya!—

—Ditto, see you later.— Luna laughs, without lifting her face from her work station. —Don't forget your P's and Q's!—

HG HG HG HG

Despite my lateness, I drive my little Mini with my usual care and consideration to my office on Bruton Street. I'm reminded why I tube it every day when I spend ten minutes driving around looking for a parking space.

I burst into the office and glance at the clock. Eight forty. Okay, I'm ten minutes late, not as bad as I thought. I pass Colin and Lavander's empty desks on the way to my own, spying Albus in his office as I land in my chair. Unpacking my laptop, I notice a package has been left for me.

—Morning, flower.— Albus's low boom greets me as he perches on the edge of my desk, followed by the customary creak under his weight. —What have you got there?

—Morning, it's the new fabric range from Miller's. You Like?— I stroke some of the luxurious material.

—Wonderful,— he feigns interest. —Don't let Minerva clap her eyes on it. I've just liquidated most of my assets to fund the new soft furnishings at home.

—Oh,— I give him a sympathetic face. —Where is everyone?

—Lavander has the day off and Colin's having a nightmare with Mr Mrs Baines. It's just you, me and Hermione today, flower.— He takes his comb out of his inside pocket and runs it through his silver mop.

—I've got a midday appointment at The Manor,— I remind him. He can't have forgotten. Country pads are supposed to be his realm. —Why am I going, Albus?— I have to ask. I've never worked on a country property before, and I'm not sure I have the insight for old fashioned and traditional.

I've worked for Hogwarts Union for four years, and it was made clear that I was employed to expand the business into the modern sector. With luxury apartments flying up all over London, Albus and Colin, with their speciality of traditional design, were missing out. When it took off and the work load got too much for me, he employed Lavander.

—That would be because they asked for you, flower.— He pushes himself to his feet, my desk creaking in protest again. Albus ignores it, but I wince. He has to lose some weight or stop sitting on my desk. It won't take the strain for much longer.

So, they asked for me? Why ever would they do that? My portfolio holds nothing that will reflect traditional design, nothing at all. I can't help but think that this is a complete waste of my time. Albus or Colin should be going.

—Oh, Lusso launch,— Albus tucks his comb away. —The developer is really pushing the boat out with this party in the penthouse. You've done an amazing job, Ginny.— Albus's eyebrows nod with his head. I blush.

—Thank you.— I'm dead proud of myself and my work at Lusso, my greatest achievement in my short career.

Based on St Katharine Docks and with prices ranging from three million for a basic apartment to ten million for the penthouse, we're in the super rich realm. The design specification is as the name suggests: Italian luxury. I sourced all materials, furniture and art from Italy and enjoyed a week there organising the shipping schedule. Next Friday is the launch party, but I know they've already sold the penthouse and six other apartments, so it's more of a showing off party.

—I've cleared my diary so I can do the final checks once the cleaners are out.— I flick the pages of my diary to next Friday and scribble across the page again.

—Good girl, I've told Lavander to be there at five. It's her first launch so you need to give her a heads up. I'll be there at seven with Colin.

—Sure.

Albus returns to his office, and I open my email, sifting through to delete or respond where necessary.

HG HG HG

At eleven o'clock, I pack my laptop up and poke my head around Albus's office door. He's engrossed with something on his computer.

—I'm off now.— I say, but he just waves his hand in the air in acknowledgment. I walk through the office to see Hermione fighting with the photocopier. —See you later, Hermi.

—Bye, Ginny.— she replies, but she's too busy removing the paper jam to acknowledge me with her face.

The girl's a calamity.

I walk out into the May sunshine and head for my car. Friday mid-morning traffic is a nightmare, but once I'm out of the city, the drive onwards is pretty straightforward. The roof is down, Adele is keeping me company and it's Friday. A little drive in the countryside is a lovely way to finish my working week.

My sat-nav instructs me to pull off of the main road and onto a little lane, where I find myself in front of the biggest pair of gates I've ever seen. A gold plaque on a pillar states "The Manor".

Bloody hell! I take my sunglasses off, looking past the gates and down the gravel road that seems to go for miles. There's no sign of a house, just a tree lined road that I can't see the end of. I get out of my car and walk up to the gates, giving them a little jiggle, but they don't budge. I stand for a few moments, wondering what to do.

—You need to press the intercom.— I nearly jump out of my skin when the low rumble of a voice comes from nowhere, stabbing at the silent country air.

I look around me, but I'm definitely on my own.

—Hello?

—Over here.

I do a full three sixty turn and see the intercom further down the lane. I drove straight past it. I run over, pressing the button to announce myself.

—Ginny Weasley, Hogwarts Union.

—I know.

He does? How? I look around and spot a camera installed on the gate, then the shift of metal breaks the countryside peace around me. The gates start opening.

—Give me a chance. I mutter as I run back to my car. I jump in my Mini and creep forward as the gates swing open, all the time wondering how I'll remove the glass of port and cigar that are, quite clearly, wedged up that miserable sod's arse. I'm looking less forward to this appointment by the minute. Posh country folk and their posh country mansions are not in my area of expertise.

Once the gates are fully opened, I drive through and continue on the tree lined, gravel driveway that seems to go on forever. With mature Elm trees lying on either side of the lane at regular and even intervals, you would think they had been strategically placed to conceal what lies beyond. After a mile or so of sheltered driving, I pull into a perfectly round courtyard. I take my sunglasses off and gape at the huge house that looms centrally and demands attention. It's superb, but I'm even more apprehensive now.

My enthusiasm for this appointment is dampening further by the minute.

The black doors – adorned with highly polished gold furniture – are flanked by four giant bay windows, with pillars in carved stone guarding them. Giant limestone blocks make up the structure of the mansion, with lush bay trees lining the face. The fountain in the centre of the courtyard, spraying out jets of illuminated water, tops the sight off. It's all very imposing.

I stop, cut the engine and fumble with the door release to get out of my car. Standing and holding on to the top of my car door, I look up at the magnificent building and immediately think that this has to be a mistake. The place is in amazing condition.

The lawns are greener than green, the house looks like it receives daily scrub downs and even the gravel looks like it receives a daily hoover. If the exterior is anything to go by, then I can't imagine the inside needing any work. I look up at the dozens of sash bay windows, seeing plush curtains hanging at them all. I'm tempted to call Albus to check I've got the right address, but it did say The Manor on the gates. And that miserable sod on the other end of the intercom was obviously expecting me.

While I'm pondering my next move, the doors open, revealing the biggest black man I've ever seen. He saunters out to the top of the steps. I physically flinch at the sight of him, stepping back slightly. He has a black suit on – specially made for sure because that's no regular size – a black shirt and a black tie. His shaven head looks like it's been buffed to a shine, and wraparound sunglasses conceal his face. If I could build a mental image of who I would have expected to walk out of them doors, he, most definitely, would not be it. The man is a mountain, and I know I'm stood here gawking at him. I'm suddenly slightly concerned that I've turned up at some mafia control centre, and I search my brain trying to remember if I transferred my rape alarm to my new handbag.

—Miss Weasley?— he drawls.

I wilt under his massive presence, putting my hand up in a nervous wave gesture.

—Hi.— I whisper, my voice laced with all of the apprehension I truly feel.

—This way.— he rumbles deeply, giving a sharp nod of his head and turning to walk back into the mansion.

I deliberate on cutting and running, but the daring and dangerous side of me is curious of what lays beyond those doors. He's no butler. I grab my bag, shut my car door and check for my rape alarm as I walk towards the house, only to find I've left it in my other bag. I carry on anyway. Pure curiosity has me walking up the steps and crossing the threshold into a huge entrance hall. I gaze around the vast area, and I'm immediately impressed by the grand, centrally position, curved staircase that leads up to the first floor.

My fears are confirmed. This place is immaculate.

The décor is opulent, lush and very intimidating. Deep blues, taupe's with hints of gold and original woodwork, along with the rich mahogany parquet floor, makes the place striking and massively extravagant. It's exactly how I would have expected it to be and nowhere near my design style. But then again, looking around, why any interior designer would be here is becoming more and more confusing.

Albus said they requested me personally, so I would be inclined to think that they want to modernise the place, but that would've been before I got a glimpse of the exterior and now the interior too. The décor suits the period building. It's in perfect condition. Why the hell am I here?

Big guy heads off to the right, leaving me to scuttle off after him. My tan heels clink on the parquet floor as he leads me past the central staircase, towards the back of the Mansion.

I hear the hum of conversation and glance to my right, noticing many people sat at various tables eating, drinking and chatting. Waiters are serving food and drinks, and the distinct voices of The Rat Pack are purring in the background. I frown, but then I click. It's a hotel – a posh country hotel. My shoulders sag slightly in relief at concluding this, but it still doesn't explain why I'm here. I'm lead past some toilets and then a bar. A few men are sat on bar stools cracking jokes and teasing a young woman, who has, apparently, returned from the lavatory with toilet roll stuck to her heel. She playfully slaps the main instigator on the shoulder, scolding him while laughing along with them.

This is all beginning to make sense to me. I want to say something to the mountain of a man leading me, God only knows where, but he hasn't looked back once to check I'm following. Although, the clink of my heels tells him I am. He doesn't say much, and I suspect he wouldn't answer me if I did speak.

We continue past two more closed doors. Judging by the clanking of pots, I assume one to be the kitchen. Then he leads me into a summer room – a massive, light, stunningly lavish space that's sectioned off into individual seating areas by the positioning of sofa's, big arm chairs and tables. Floor to ceiling bi-fold doors span the complete face of the room, leading to a yorkstone patio and a vast lawn area. It's really quite awe inspiring. I inwardly gasp when I spot a glass building housing a swimming pool. It's incredible. I shudder to think how much the nightly rate is. It has to be five stars – probably more.

Once we've passed through the summer room, I'm lead down a corridor until big guy stops outside a wooden panelled door. 'Mr Potter's office.' he rumbles, knocking the door, surprisingly gently given his mammoth size.

—The Manager?— I ask.

—The Owner,— he replies, opening the door and striding through. —Come in.

I hesitate on the threshold, watching as the big guy strides into the room ahead of me. I eventually force my feet into action, moving into the room, while gazing around at the equally luxurious surroundings of Mr Potter's office.


	2. Chapter 2

—Harry, Miss Weasley, Hogwarts Union.— Big guy announces.

—Perfect. Thanks, Remus.

I'm dragged from my awed like state, straight into high alert. My back straightens.

I can't see him, he's obscured by the big guy's massive frame, but that raspy, smooth voice has me frozen on the spot, and it certainly doesn't sound like it's coming from a cigar smoking, overweight, wax jacket wearing Lord of the Manor.

Big guy, or Remus as I now know him, moves to the side, giving me my first glimpse of Mr Harry Potter.

Oh good God. My heart crashes against my breast bone and my nervous breathing rockets to damn right dangerous levels. I suddenly feel light headed, and my mouth is ignoring my brains instructions to at least say something. I just stand there staring at this man, while he stares back at me. His husky voice halted me in my tracks, but the sight of him…well, that's just turned me into a non-responsive, quivering wreck.

He rises from his chair, my gaze traveling up with him until he's stood at full height. He's very tall. His white shirt is casually rolled at the sleeves, but he still wears a black tie, loosely knotted and hanging down the front of a broad chest.

He makes his way around his massive desk and slowly walks towards me. It's then that I take in the full impact of him. I gulp. This man is so perfect, I'm almost in pain. His dirty black hair looks like he's half attempted to get it into some semblance of a style but given up. His eyes are sludgy green, but bright and way too intense, and the stubble covering his square jaw does nothing to conceal the handsome features beneath it. He's lightly tanned and just…Oh God, he's devastating. Lord of the Manor?

—Miss Weasley.— His hand comes toward me, but I can't persuade my arm to raise and clasp his outstretched offering. He's beautiful.

When I don't offer my hand, he reaches forward and clasps both of my shoulders, then slowly leans in to kiss me, his lips brushing lightly over my burning cheek. I tense all over. I can hear my pulse throbbing in my ears, and even though it's completely inappropriate for a business meeting, I do nothing to stop him.

I'm all over the place.

—It's a pleasure,— he whispers in my ear, which only serves to make me moan slightly. He must feel my tenseness – it's not difficult, I'm rigid – because his grip eases up and he lowers his face to my level, looking me directly in the eyes. —Are you okay?— he asks, one side of his mouth lifting into a semblance of a smile. I notice a single frown line across his forehead.

I snap myself out of my ridiculous inertness, suddenly aware that I've still not said anything. Has he noticed my reaction to him? What about big guy? I glance over, seeing the big guy stood motionless, glasses still in place, but I know his eyes are on me. I mentally shake myself and step back, away from Potter and his potent grasp. His hands fall to his side.

—Hi,— I cough to clear my throat. —Ginny. My name is Ginny.— I offer him my hand, but he's unhurried in accepting it, like he's unsure whether it's safe to, but he does…eventually.

His hand is clammy and slightly shaky as he squeezes mine firmly. Sparks fizz and a curious look flits across his stunning face. We both retract our hands in shock.

—Ginny.— He's trying my name on his lips, and it takes all of my strength not to moan again. He should stop talking – immediately.

—Yes, Ginny.— I confirm. He's the one who seems to be off in his own little nirvana now, while I'm becoming increasingly aware of my rising temperature.

He suddenly seems to come to his senses, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets as he shakes his head slightly, retreating backwards.

—Thanks, Remus— he nods to the big guy, who smiles slightly, softening his hard features, then leaves.

I'm alone with this man, who has rendered me speechless, motionless and pretty much useless.

He nods towards two brown leather couches, positioned opposite each other in the bay window, with a large coffee table sitting between them.

—Please, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?— He drags his gaze from mine, walking towards a cabinet with various bottles of liquor lined up on top. He surely doesn't mean alcohol? It's midday. Even by my standards it's too early. I watch as he hovers at the cabinet for a few moments before turning to face me again, looking at me expectantly.

—No, thank you.— I shake my head as I speak, just in case the words don't come out.

—Water?— he asks, that smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Oh God, don't look at me.

—Please.— I smile a nervous smile. My mouth is parched.

He collects two bottles of water from the integrated fridge and turns back towards me. It's then that I persuade my shaky legs to carry me across the room to the sofa.

—Ginny?— His voice rolls across me, causing me to falter en-route.

I turn to face him. It's probably a bad idea.

—Yes

He holds up a highball.

—Glass?

—Yes, please.— I smile. He must think I'm so unprofessional. I settle myself on the leather couch, retrieve my folder and phone from my bag and place them on the table in front of me. I notice my hands shaking.

Christ, woman. Get a grip! I feign making notes as he strolls back over, placing my water and a glass on the table. He sits down on the sofa opposite and crosses one leg over the other, his ankle resting on his thigh. He stretches back. He's really making himself comfortable, and the silence that falls between us is screaming as I write anything and everything to avoid looking up at him. I know I've got to look at the man and say something at some point, but all standard enquiry questions have run, screaming and shouting, from my brain.

—So, where do we start?— he asks, forcing me look up and acknowledge his question. He smiles. I swoon.

He's watching me over the rim of his bottle as he raises it to those lovely lips. I break the eye contact, reaching forward to pour some water into my glass. I'm struggling to reign in my nerves, and I can still feel his eyes on me. This is truly awkward. I've never been so affected by a man.

—I guess you should tell me why I'm here.— I speak! I look back up at him as I take my glass from the table.

—Oh?— he says quietly. There's that frown line again. Even with that, he's still beautiful.

—You requested me by name?— I press.

—Yes.— he replies simply. He smiles again. I have to look away.

I take a sip of my water to moisten my dry mouth, and clear my throat before returning my gaze to his potent stare.

—So, can I ask why?

—You can.— He uncrosses his leg, leaning forward to place his bottle on the table, resting his forearms on his knees, but he says no more. Is he not going to elaborate on that?

—Okay,— I struggle to maintain eye contact. —Why?

—I've heard great things about you.

I feel my face burning up.

—Thank you. So, why am I here?

—Well, to design—' He laughs, and I feel stupid but slightly irritated as well. Is he making fun of me?

—Design what exactly?— I ask. —From what I've seen, everything is pretty perfect.— He surely doesn't want to modernise this lovely place. It may not be my forte, but I know class when I see it.

—Thank you,— he says softly. —Do you have your portfolio with you?

—Of course,— I reply, reaching into my bag. Why he wants to look at it is beyond me. It won't reflect anything like this place.

I place it on the table in front of him and expect him to drag it over to his side, but to my horror, he stands in one fluid movement and walks around to me, lowering his lovely lean body onto the sofa next to me. Oh, Jesus. He smells divine – all fresh water and minty. I hold my breath. Leaning forward, he opens the folder.

—You're very young to be such an accomplished designer.— he muses, slowly turning the pages of my portfolio.

He's right, I am. It's only thanks to Albus for giving me free reign on the expansion of his business. In four years, I've fallen out of college, picked up a job in an established design company – that had the financial stability but lacked the new freshness in modern ideas – and made a name for myself on the back of it. I've been lucky, and I appreciate Albus's faith in my capabilities. That, coupled with my contract at Lusso, is the only reason I'm where I am at the age of twenty six.

I look down at his lovely hand, his wrist adorned in a beautiful gold and graphite Rolex.

—How old are you?— I blurt. Oh, good God. My brain is like scrambled egg, and I know I've just blushed a sharp shade of red. I should just keep my mouth shut. Where the hell did that come from?

He looks at me intently, his green eyes burning into mine.

—Twenty one.— he answers, completely poker faced.

I scoff mildly, and his eyebrows jump up questioningly.

—Sorry.— I mutter, turning back to the table. I'm feeling flustered. I hear him exhale heavily as his lovely hand reaches back down to my portfolio to start turning the pages again, his left hand resting on the edge of the table.

I notice no ring. He's not married? How can that be?

—This, I like a lot.— He points to the photographs of Lusso.

—I'm not sure my works on Lusso would fit in here.— I say quietly. It's way too modern – luxurious, yes, but too modern.

He looks up at me.

—You're right, I'm just saying…I really like it.

—Thank you.— I feel my colour deepen as he studies me thoughtfully before returning to my portfolio.

I make a grab for my water, resisting the temptation to chuck it down my front to cool me off, but very nearly do when his trouser clad thigh brushes against my bare knee. I shift quickly to break the contact, glancing out the corner of my eye to see a small smirk breaking at the edge of his mouth. He's doing this on purpose. It's too much.

—Do you have a toilet?— I ask as I place my glass back on the table and stand. I need to go and compose myself. I'm a ruffled mess.

He rises from the couch swiftly, moving back to let me pass.

—Through the summer room and on your left.— he says with a smile. He knows he's affecting me. The way he's smiling at me, knowingly, I bet he has this sort of reaction from women all of the time.

—Thank you.— I edge out of the small gape between the table and the sofa, my task hampered as he makes no attempt to give me more space. I have to virtually brush past him, and that has me holding my breath until I'm clear of his body.

I walk towards the door. His eyes are on me; I can feel them burning a hole through my dress. I roll my neck to try and rid myself of the goose bumps jumping onto my nape.

Stumbling out of his office, I head down the corridor before wandering through the summer room and staggering into the ridiculously posh lavatories. I brace myself over the sink and look in the mirror.

—Jesus, Ginny. Pull it together!— I scorn my reflection.

—Met the Lord, have we?

I swing around and find a very attractive business lady, faffing with her hair at the other end of the room. I have no idea what to say, but she's just confirmed what I already suspected – he does have this affect on all women. When my brain fails to deliver on anything suitable to say, I just smile.

She returns my smile, amused and knowing of the reason for my flustered state, before disappearing from the toilets. If I wasn't feeling so hot and nervous, I might be embarrassed at my obvious condition.

But I am hot, and I'm very nervous, so I brush off my humiliation, take some steady breaths and wash my clammy hands with the Noble Isle hand wash. I should have brought my bag. I could do with some Vaseline on my lips. My mouth is still dry and my lips are suffering as a consequence.

Okay, I need to get back out there, get the specification and be gone. My heart is pleading for some let up. I'm completely ashamed of myself. I re-pin my hair and exit the toilets, making my way back to Mr Potter's office. I don't know if I'm going to be able to work for this man; I'm just way too affected by him.

I knock before I enter, finding him sat on the couch looking over my portfolio. He looks up and smiles, and I know now, I really have to leave. I can't possibly work with this man. Every molecule of intelligence and brain power I possess has been zapped from my body by his presence. And worse of all, he knows it.

I give myself a mental pep talk, making my way over to the table, ignoring the fact that he's following my every move. He leans back on the sofa in a gesture for me to squeeze past, but I don't. I take a seat on the opposite sofa, perching on the edge.

He flicks me a questioning look.

—Are you okay?

—Yes, I'm fine,— I answer shortly. He knows. —Would you like to show me where your intended project is so we can start discussing requirements?— I force the confidence into my voice. I'm just following protocol now. I've absolutely no intention of taking this contract on, but I can't just walk out – as tempting as it is.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by my change of approach.

—Sure.— He gets up from the sofa, striding over to his desk to collect his mobile. I gather my things, stuff them into my bag and follow his gesture to lead the way.

He quickly overtakes me, opening the door and performing an exaggerated gentlemanly bow as he holds it open. I smile politely – even though I know he's playing with me – and exit into the corridor, heading towards the summer room. I stiffen on a gasp when he places a hand at the small of my back to guide me.

What's he playing at? I'm trying my hardest to ignore it, but you would have to be dead not to notice the affect this man's having on me. And I know he knows it. My skin's burning all over – almost certainly warming his palm through my dress – I can't get my breathing under control and walking is taking every bit of coordination and effort I possess. I'm pathetic, and it's bloody obvious he's enjoying the reactions he's drawing from me. I must be quite amusing.

Annoyed with myself, I walk a little quicker to break the contact of his hand from my back, stopping when I reach the point of two possible routes.

He reaches me, pointing out across the lawns to the tennis courts.

—Do you play?

I actually laugh, but it's a comfortable laugh.

—No, I don't.— I can run, but that's about it. Give me a bat, racket or a ball, then you're asking for trouble. The corners of his mouth twitch into a grin at my reaction, bolstering the green of his eyes and lengthening his generous lashes. I smile, shaking my head in wonder at this glorious man. —You?— I ask.

He continues through to the entrance hall, me following.

—I don't mind the odd game, but I'm more of an extreme sports kinda guy.— He stops, and I halt with him.

He looks ridiculously fit and toned.

—What sort of extreme sports?

—Snow-boarding, mainly, but I've tried my hand at white water rafting, bungee jumping and skydiving. I'm a bit of an adrenalin junky. I like to feel the blood pumping.— He watches me as he speaks, making me feel scrutinised. You would have to anesthetise me before you got me doing any of his blood pumping pastimes. I'll stick to a run every so often.

—Extreme.— I say, studying this magnificent man of an age I don't know.

—Very extreme,— he confirms quietly. My breath catches again and I close my eyes, mentally yelling at myself for being such a loser. —Shall we continue?— he asks. I can hear humour in his voice.

I open my eyes to be met by his penetrating, green stare.

—Yes, please.

I wish he would stop looking at me like that. He half smiles again and walks into the bar, greeting the men I saw earlier by clapping them on the shoulders. The woman is no longer here. The two men are very attractive, young – probably late twenties – and perched on bar stools, drinking bottles of beer.

—Guys, this is Ginny. Ginny, this is Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy.

—Good afternoon.— Draco drawls. He's a bit miserable. His appearance – he's handsome in a rugged kind of way – and character, tell me he's smart, confident and a business type. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his suit pristine, his eyes shrewd.

—Hi.— I smile politely.

—Welcome to the pleasure dome,— Neville laughs, raising his bottle. —Can I buy you a drink?

I notice Potter shake his head lightly on an eye roll. Neville grins. He's the polar opposite of Draco – all casual and laid back, in old jeans, a Superdry T-shirt and converse. He has a cheeky face, complimented by one dimple on his left cheek. His gray eyes twinkle, adding to his cheekiness, and his mousey black, shoulder length hair is all over the place.

—No, I'm fine, thanks.— I answer.

He nods at Potter.

—Harry?

—No, I'm good, I'm just giving Ginny a tour of the extension. She'll be working on the interiors.— he says, smiling at me.

I quietly scoff to myself. Not if I have anything to do with it. Anyway, he's jumping the gun a bit, isn't he? We've not discussed rates, briefs or anything, for that matter.

—About time, there are never any rooms available.— Draco grumbles into his bottle. Why have I never heard of this place?

—How was the boarding in Cortina, my man?— Neville asks.

Potter perches on another stool.

—Amazing. The Italian way of skiing follows pretty closely to their laid back lifestyle,— He smiles broadly, the first proper full beam smile since I've laid eyes on him – all straight, white and lush. This man is a God. —I got up late, found a great mountain, ran the slopes until my legs buckled, had a siesta, ate late and started all over again the next day.— He's addressing us all but staring at me. His passion for the slopes is demonstrated in his wide smile. I can't help but return his beam.

—You're good?— I ask, because it's the only thing that comes to mind. I imagine he's good at everything.

—Very,— he confirms quietly. I nod my approval, and for a few seconds, our eyes are locked. I'm the first to break it. —Shall we?— he asks, pushing himself up from the stool and gesturing towards the exit.

—Yes.— I smile. I'm supposedly here to work, after all. All I've achieved so far is a hot flush and an establishment of extreme sports. I feel like I'm in a trance.

From the moment I pulled up to those gates, I knew it wasn't going to be an average day to day meeting, and I was right. In the four years I've been visiting people in their homes, work places and new builds, I've never come across a Harry Potter. I probably never will do again. It's undoubtedly a good job.

I turn to the two guys at the bar, smiling my goodbye, prompting them to raise their bottles before they continue with their conversation. I walk towards the door that leads back to the entrance hall, feeling him close behind me. He's too close; I can smell him. I close my eyes, sending a small prayer to God to get me through this quickly, with at least a bit of dignity intact. He's just way too intense and it's throwing my senses in a million different directions.

—So, now for the main feature,— He begins to climb the wide staircase. I follow him, gazing around the colossal void that leads to a huge gallery landing. —These are the private rooms.— he says, pointing to various doors that lead off of the landing.

I follow, admiring his lovely backside, thinking he possibly has the sexiest walk I've ever had the privilege of seeing. When I drag my eyes from his tidy rear, I see that there are at least twenty doors, evenly spaced and leading into rooms beyond. He leads me until we reach another grand staircase that stretches to another floor. At the foot of the stairs, there's a beautiful stained glass window and an archway leading to another wing.

—This is the extension,— He guides me through to a new section of the mansion. —This is where I need your help.— he adds, halting at the mouth of a corridor that leads to a further ten rooms.

—This is all new?— I ask.

—Yes, they're all shells at the moment, but I'm sure you'll remedy that. Let me show you.—

I'm way past shocked when he takes my hand, tugging me down the corridor to the very last door. Inappropriate! His hand is still clammy, and I'm sure mine is trembling in his grip. The arched brow on a slight grin he flashes me, tells me I'm right. There's some sort of super charged current flowing through us – it's making me shudder.

He opens the door, directing me into a freshly plastered room. It's vast, and the new windows are sympathetic to the existing property. Whoever built this did an excellent job.

—Are they all this big?— I ask, flexing my fingers until he releases my hand. Does he behave like this with all females? It's really off putting.

—Yes.

I walk into the centre of the room, looking around. It's a good size. I notice another door.

—En-suite?— I ask as I wander over and enter.

—Yes.

The rooms are huge, especially by hotel standards. A lot could be done with them. I would be excited, if I wasn't so concerned with what's expected of me. This is no Lusso. I exit the bathroom, finding Potter leaning against the wall, his hands in his trouser pockets, his eyes all hooded and dark as he watches me.

My God, the man is sex on legs. I'm almost disappointed that traditional doesn't feature in my design history. It's of no interest to me at all.

—I'm not sure I'm the right person for this job.— I sound regretful. That's okay, because I am. I'm regretful that I can't pull myself together. He looks at me, those sludgy eyes stabbing at my defenses, making me shift on my heels.

—I think you have what I want.— he says quietly.

WHOA!

—I've always dealt in modern luxury,— I look around the room again, slowly dropping my eyes back to him. —I'm sure you would be happier working with Albus or Colin. They deal with our period projects.

He considers me for a second, does that head shake thing and pushes himself away from the wall by his shoulder blades.

—But I want you.

—Why?

—You look like you'll be very good.

An involuntary rush of breath escapes my lips at his words. I'm not sure what to make of that statement.

Does he mean for my design skills or something else? The way he's looking at me, tells me it's the latter.

He's a bit bloody confident.

—What's your brief?— I ask, because all other words fail me. My colour is rising again.

A smile tickles the corners of his mouth.

—Sensual, intimate, luxurious, stimulating, invigorating…— He pauses to gage my reaction.

I frown. It's not the usual brief. Relaxing, functional or practical were not mentioned at all.

—Okay, anything in particular I should allow for?— I ask. Why am I bothering with these questions?

—A big bed and lots of wall hangings.— he states on a husk.

—What sort of wall hangings?

—Big, wooden ones. Oh, and the lighting needs to suit.

—Suit what?— I can't help the confusion in my tone.

He smiles, and I dissolve on the spot in a hot pool of hormones.

—Well, the brief, of course.

Oh God, he must think I'm something else.

—Yes, of course,— I look up, seeing chunky beams spanning the ceiling. The building is new, but they are no faux beams. —Do all of the rooms have them?— I return my eyes to his.

—Yes, they're essential.— His voice is low and seductive. I'm not sure how much more I can take.

I grab my client briefing pad to start making notes.

—Are there any particular colours I should work to or against?

—No, knock yourself out.

I flick my head up to look at him.

—Excuse me?

He smiles.

—Go for it.

Oh, well, I won't be knocking myself out on anything because he won't be seeing me here again. But I should get as much information as possible so I can pass it to Albus or Colin, with at least a bit of willingness.

—You mentioned a big bed. Any particular type?— I ask, trying to remain professional.

—No, just very big,

I falter mid-note, slowly looking up to find him watching me. It's making me stupidly nervous.

—What about soft furnishings?

—Yes, lots.— He starts walking towards me. —I like your dress.— he whispers.

Holy shit, I'm out of here!

—Thanks,— I squeak, making for the door. —I have everything I need.— I don't, but I can't stay here any longer. This man is like a sensory drain on me. —I'll get some designs together.— I exit into the corridor, heading straight for the gallery landing.

Bloody hell, when I woke up this morning, this was the last thing I expected. Posh country mansion – with a painfully handsome owner to round the package off – is not part of my regular daily routine.

I find my way to the top of the stairs, bolting down at a stupid rate, considering the tan stilettos I have on. I hit the parquet floor, wondering how the hell I got here. I'm a mess.

—I look forward to hearing from you, Ginny.— His husky voice rolls over my flesh as he joins me at the bottom of the stairs, putting his hand out. I take it in mine for fear that if I don't, he may well clench me and place his lips on me again.

—You have a lovely hotel.— I say genuinely. I'm beginning to wish that my handbag contents consisted of spare knickers, a blind fold, ear plugs and some armor. I might have been more prepared.

His eyebrows shoot up as he keeps hold of my hand and slowly shakes it. The buzz travelling through our joined hands makes me tense all over.

—I have a lovely hotel.— he repeats thoughtfully. The buzz transforms to a full on jolt of electricity, and I retract my hand under reflex. He looks at me questioningly.

—It really was nice to meet you, Ginny.— He emphasises the really.

—You too,— I practically whisper.

I watch as his eyes dart briefly and he starts chewing his bottom lip. His shifting body eventually moves over to the centre table of the entrance hall. He pulls out a single calla lily from the huge spray that's dominating the piece of furniture. He studies it for a few moments before he holds it out to me.

—Understated elegance.— he says softly.

I don't know why, maybe because my brain is mush, but I take it.

—Thank you.

He puts his abandoned hand in his pocket, watching me closely.

—You're more than welcome.— His gaze travels from my eyes to my lips. I take a few steps back.

—There you are!— A woman walks out of the bar and towards Potter. She's attractive – all blonde, midlength, layered hair and red, pouty lips. She kisses his cheek. —Are you ready?

Okay, I'm assuming this must be the wife. But there was no ring, so maybe it's the girlfriend? Either or, I'm completely stunned when he doesn't take his eyes off of me, making no attempt to answer her question. She turns to see what's stealing his attention and eyes me suspiciously. I don't like her instantly, and it has nothing to do with the man she's draped all over.

—And you are?— she purrs.

I shift uncomfortably, feeling like I've been captured doing something naughty. Well, I have. I've been having extreme unwelcome reactions to her boyfriend. An unreasonable pang of jealousy stabs at me.

How ridiculous!

I smile sweetly.

—Just leaving. Goodbye.— I turn, practically running to the door and scuttling down the steps. I jump into my car, letting out an almighty breath, and when my lungs have thanked me for the welcome air, I flop back in my seat and commence breathing regulating exercises.

I'm going to have to pass this to Colin. But then I laugh at my stupid idea. Colin's gay. He'll be just as affected by Potter as I am. Even knowing he's taken, I still couldn't work with him. I shake my head in disbelief and start my car.

As I drive down the gravel driveway, I look in my rear view mirror at the imposing Manor getting smaller and smaller behind me. And there, stood at the top of the steps watching me leave, is Harry Potter.

HG HG HG

—There you are. I was just going to call you,— Luna exclaims, without looking up from placing a figurine on the wedding cake she's decorating. Her tongue's hanging out, resting on her bottom lip. It makes me smile. —Do you fancy going out?— She still doesn't look up.

This is good. I'm sure my face will give away any attempt to feign coolness. I'm still slightly flustered after my lunchtime meeting with a certain Lord of the Manor. I don't have the energy to get ready and go out.

—Shall we save ourselves for tomorrow?— I try. I know this will mean a bottle of wine on the sofa, but at least I can put my PJ's on and chill out. After the day I've had, winding down my racing mind is paramount. I've got a headache and lacked the ability to concentrate all day.

—Absolutely. Let me finish this cake, then I'm all yours.— She swivels the fruit cake on the stand, dabbing edible glue onto the icing. —How was your day in the countryside?

Ha! What do I say? I expected a pompous country bumpkin, but I got a devastatingly handsome, suited God. He requested me by name, his touch turned me to molten lava, I can't look in his eyes for fear of passing out and he liked my dress. Instead, I say, —Interesting,

She looks up.

—Do tell.— she prompts, her eyes sparkling as she bends back down, her tongue popping

out again.

—It wasn't what I expected.— I flick a piece of imaginary lint off of my navy dress in an attempt to appear casual.

—Leave out what you expected and tell me what you got.— She's stopped trying to fix husband and wife to the top of the cake. Instead, her eyes are narrowed on me. She has icing on the end of her nose, but I ignore it.

—The owner,— I shrug, fiddling with my tan belt.

—The owner?— she asks, her lips twitching.

—Yes. Harry Potter, the owner.— I flick more imaginary lint from my dress.

—Harry Potter, the owner.— she mimics me, pointing to one of the flowery tub chairs in her workshop.

—Sit, now! Why are you trying to sound cool? You're failing miserably, by the way. Your cheeks are the colour of that icing.— She points to a fire engine cake on the metal shelf stand. —Why was the owner, Harry Potter, not what you expected?— Because he was steaming hot! I flop into the chair with my bag on my lap, while Luna stands tapping her palm with the handle of her spatula. She finally walks over, sitting in the chair opposite me.—Tell me.— she presses, knowing there's something to tell.

I shrug.

—The man's attractive and he knows it.— I see her eyes light up as the spatulas taps become faster on her hand. She wants more drama. She loves it. When Dean and I split up, she was the first on the scene to soak up the spectacle as a supporting friend. She needn't have bothered. It was mutual, very amicable and really rather boring. No plates were flying and no neighbours called the police.

—How old?— she asks keenly.

Now, that one's got me. I'm still mortified that I blurted such an inappropriate question during a business meeting. My embarrassment wasn't even worthwhile as he was obviously playing with me.

I shrug.

—He said twenty one, but he's at least ten years past that.

—You asked him?— Luna's jaw hits her lap.

—Yes, in a moment of pure brain to mouth filter malfunction, the question did slip. I'm not proud.— I mutter. —I made such a fool of myself, Luna. A man's never done that to me before. But this one, well, you would have been ashamed of me.

A sharp shot of laughter flies from her mouth.

—Ginny, I need to teach you some social skills!— She falls back in her chair, starting to lick the icing from her spatula.

—Please do,— I grumble, putting my hand out to her. She passes me the spatula, and I start licking at the edges. I've lived with Luna for a month and existed on wine, icing sugar and cake mixture. A loss of appetite after a break up, I don't have. —He was very self-assured.— I say between licks.

—As in?

—Oh, this man knew he was sparking a reaction in me. I must have been painful to watch. I was pathetic.

—That good?

I shake my head in dismay.

—Ridiculously,

—He's probably shit in bed,— Luna muses. —All the hot ones are. What's your brief?

—Ten new bedrooms in the extension. I thought I was going to a country mansion, but it's a mega plush hotel come spa. The Manor, have you heard of it?

Luna's face screws up into a clueless expression.

—Nope,— she replies, getting up to turn the oven off.

—Can I come next time?

—No, I'm not going back. I can't work with that. Besides, he has a girlfriend. And I could never look him in the eye again, not after my performance.— I push myself up from the chair, throwing the spatula into the empty mixing bowl. —I've passed it over to Albus. Wine?

—In the fridge,

We make our way up to the flat and change into our PJ's. I dump my bag on my bed and it flops open, the calla lily Potter gave me making an appearance. Understated elegance. I pick it up and twirl it in my fingers for a few moments, then dump it in my wastepaper basket. Forgotten...

Once changed into my slob out clothes, I load the DVD player with the latest offering from the local rental shop, jump on the couch with Luna and try to concentrate on the movie.

It's impossible. My mind's eye is trampled with a tall, lean, dark, green eyed male of a certain age, with a dribble worthy gait and bag loads of sex appeal. I doze off with the words "But I want you" pin-balling around my head. Not so forgotten…


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N. This story it's not mine, it's from a book that I read and really really loved and I want to adapt to the characters of the universe of HP, at the end of the saga I post the name of the books and the author. I hope you liked the story.**

After two progress meetings with clients and stopping by at Mr Muller's new townhouse in Holland Park to drop off some samples, I'm back in the office listening to Albus moan about Minerva. It's a normal Monday morning affair after he's endured a whole weekend away from the office with his wife. I really have no idea how the poor man pokes up with her.Colin breezes in with the widest grin on his face, and I know immediately he must have pulled over the weekend.

—Darling, I've missed you!— He air kisses me and turns to Albus, who holds his hands up in a don't even think about it gesture. Colin rolls his eyes, completely un offended, and waltzes to his desk.

—Morning,Colin.— I greet brightly.

—I've had the most stressful morning. Mr and Mrs Baines have changed their bloody minds for the thousandth time. I've had to cancel all the orders and re arrange a dozen workmen,— He waves his arms in the air in frustration. —I got a sodding parking ticket for not displaying a permit in a resident's zone and, to top it off, I snagged my new jumper on them hideous railings outside Starbucks.— He starts picking the stray wool from the hem of his hot pink, V neck jumper. —God damn it, look! It's a good job I got laid last night or I'd be in the depths of despair.— He grins at me.

I knew it.

Albus walks away, shaking his head. His attempts to tone Colin's gayness down to more tolerable levels have proven ineffective. He's now given up.

—Good night?— I ask.

—Wonderful, I met the most divine man. He's taking me to the Natural History Museum at the weekend. He's a scientist. We're soul mates, for sure.

—What happened to the personal trainer?— I ask. That was last week's soul mate.

—Don't, it was a disaster. He turned up at my apartment on Friday night with the Dirty Dancing DVD and an Indian takeout for two. Can you believe that?

—I'm shocked.— I tease.

—I bloody was. Needless to say, I won't be seeing him again. What's happening with you, darling? How's that gorgeous ex-boyfriend of yours?— He winks. Colin doesn't hide his attraction to Dean, which makes me laugh but makes Dean extremely uncomfortable.

—He's okay. He's still the ex and still straight.

—Damn shame. Let me know when he comes to his senses.— Colin saunters off, tweaking his perfectly positioned blonde quiff.

—Hermione, I'm emailing you a design consultation fee for Mr Potter. Can you make sure you send it today?

—I will, Ginny. Seven day payment terms?

—Yes, thank you.— I turn back to my desk and resume colour matching, reaching over to grab my phone when it starts dancing around my desk. Glancing at my screen, I nearly fall off my chair when I see the name Harry flashing up. After a few seconds of staring, my brain finally gets the shock message and my heart commences sprint in my chest. What the hell?

I never stored his number. Albus never got round to passing it to me and after handing the project over to him on Friday, I no longer needed it. I wouldn't be going back, and I meant it. And even so, I wouldn't have saved his number under his first name. I hold my phone in my hand, scanning the office to see if the continuous ringing has drawn any attention from my colleagues. It hasn't. I let it ring off. What does he want?

I make for Albus's office to ask if he's notified Mr Potter of the change in arrangements, but then it rings again, halting me in my tracks. I take a steady breath and connect the call.

If Albus hasn't advised him yet, then I will. And if it doesn't suit, it's bad luck. I make a rubbish job of convincing myself that I've passed the contract over because Albus's more suitable for the project. I know damn well that's only half the reason.

—Hello.— I say, stamping my foot a little for sounding apprehensive in my greeting. I was aiming for sure and confident.

—Ginny?— His husky voice has the same impact on my weak senses as it did on Friday. But at least over the phone he can't see me physically trembling.

—Who's speaking?— There. That sounded better, professional, business like and steady.

He laughs lightly, and it throws me completely off guard.

—Now, I know you already know the answer to that question because my name came up on your phone,— I cringe on the spot. —Trying to play it cool?

Oh, the arrogant arse! How does he know that? But then realisation dawns on me.

—You added yourself to my contacts list?— I gasp. When did he do that? I mentally sprint through our meeting, settling on my visit to the toilet when I left my portfolio and phone on the table. I can't believe he went through my phone!

—I need to be able to get hold of you.

Oh, no. Albus, obviously, hasn't told him. Nevertheless, you don't go around snooping through strangers phones. He really is very self assured. And storing it under Harry? That's a bit familiar.

—Albus should have contacted you,— I coolly inform him. —I'm afraid I'm unable to assist you, but Albus will be more than happy to help.

—Albus has been in contact,— he replies. I sag in relief but then frown. Why is he calling me then? —I'm sure he will be happy to help, but I'm less than happy to accept it.

My mouth gapes. Who does he think he is? He's called to tell me he's not happy? Oh, this man is way past arrogant. I close my gaping mouth.

—I'm sorry to hear that.— I sound less than sorry; I sound irritated.

—Are you?

And I'm thrown again. No, I'm not sorry. But I'm not about to tell him that.

—Yes, I am.— I lie. I want to add that I could never work with an arrogant, good looking swine like him, but I refrain. That wouldn't be very professional.

I hear him sigh.

—I don't think you are, Ginny.— My name sounds like velvet rolling from his lips, causing a familiar shudder to course through me. How does he know I'm not sorry? —I think you're avoiding me.— he adds.

I'm going to dislocate my jaw at this rate. He's right. He sparks some very unwelcome feelings in me, and the fact I know he's involved with someone else has not helped one iota.

—Why would I do that?— I ask cockily. That should shut him up.

—Well, because you're attracted to me.

—Excuse me?— I splutter. His self assuredness knows no bounds. Has he no shame? The fact that he's bang on the money is way beside the point. You would have to be blind, deaf and numb not to be attracted to this man. He's the epitome of male perfection and, quite clearly, he knows it.

He sighs.

—I said…

—Yes, I heard you,— I interrupt him. —I just can't believe you said it.— I slump in my chair.

I've never known anything quite like it. I'm completely stunned. The man has a significant other, and he's flirting on the end of the phone with me? What a player! I need to turn this conversation back around to business and get off of the phone quickly.

—I apologise for not being available to assist with your work.— I blurt and hang up, staring down at my phone.

That was really quite rude and extremely unprofessional, but I'm completely staggered by his

forwardness. Passing the contract over to Albus is looking more and more sensible by the minute. A text arrives.

I notice you didn't deny it. You should know the feeling's mutual.

H x

Shitting fucking hell! I slap my hand over my lips to stop my mental explicit language from falling out of my mouth. No, I didn't deny it. And he's attracted to me? I'm a bit young for him, or is he too old for me? A kiss? What a cocky arse! I don't reply, I have no idea what to say to that.

Instead, I throw my phone in my bag and go to meet Luna for lunch.

HG HG HG

—Holy Moses!— Luna exclaims, staring down at my phone. Her blond hair is swinging from side to side in its ponytail as she shakes her head. —Did you reply?— She looks up at me expectantly.

—Christ, no.— I laugh. What would she recommend I say to that? It's got me completely stumped.

—And he's got a girlfriend?

—Yes.— I nod, raising my eyebrows.

She places my phone back on the table.

—That's a shame.

Is it? It actually makes things a lot easier. It totally trumps the looks and reactions he spikes in me.

Luna's far more daring than me. She would have replied with something shocking and suggestive, and probably made his jaw drop. That girl would give any bona fide man eater a run for their money. Not slow in coming forward, she mostly scared men off on the first date only the strongest survive. Luna's long, blond hair is as vibrant as her personality. She's confident, strong minded and determined.

—Not really,— I muse, picking up my cheeky lunchtime wine and taking a sip. —Anyway, it's only been four weeks since Dean and I split up. I don't want any men in my life, not in any capacity.— I like the fact that I sound resolute. —I'm enjoying being single and carefree for the first time ever.— I add. And it really does feel like the first time ever. I was with Dean for four years and previous to that, I was in a three year relationship with Michael.

—Have you seen the prick?— Luna face distorts into one of disgust at the mention of my ex's name.

She can't stand Dean and was delighted when I split up with him. Luna catching him at it with a work colleague in a taxi only confirmed what I already knew. I don't know why I ignored it for so long. When I confronted him calmly, he fell apart with apologies and nearly fell over when I told him I wasn't bothered. I really wasn't, much to my own surprise. The relationship had run its course, and Dean was of the same opinion. It's all been very amicable, much to Luna's disgust. She wants flying plates and police intervention.

—No.— I confirm.

—We are having fun, aren't we?— She grins as the waitress approaches with our lunch.

—I'm just going to the loo.— I get up, leaving Luna dowsing her chips in mayonnaise.

After using the toilet, I stand in the mirror reapplying my lip gloss and fluffing my hair. It's behaving today, so it's down and tumbling all over my shoulders. I brush down my black capri pants and pick a few hairs off my cream blouse. My phone rings as I make my way back to the bar. I drag it from my bag, rolling my eyes when I see it's him again. He's probably wondering where my reply to his inappropriate text message is. I'm not playing games with him.

—Reject.— I huff at my phone, stabbing at the red button and stuffing it in my bag as I continue down the corridor. —Oh God, I'm Sorry!— I splutter, slamming straight into a chest.

This chest is a very firm chest, and the intoxicating fresh water scent that's washing over me is way too familiar. My legs refuse to move, and I know what I'm going to see if I look up. His arm is already wrapped around my waist to steady me, my eyes level with the top of his chest. I can see his heart beating through his shirt.

—Reject?— he says softly. —I'm wounded.

I push myself away from his grasp, attempting to regain my composure. He looks stunning, wearing a charcoal suit and crisp white shirt. I laugh at myself and my inability to get my eyes past his upper body for fear of being hypnotised by the potency of this man's sludgy gaze.

—Is something funny?— he asks. I suspect he's frowning at my random outburst, but because I refuse to look at him, I can't confirm that.

—I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going.— I side step him, but he grabs my elbow, halting my escape.

—Just tell me one thing before you leave, Ginny.— His voice prickles at my senses, and I find my eyes travelling up the leanness of his body until our stares meet. His face is serious, but still stunning. —How loud do you think you'll scream when I fuck you?

WHAT?

—Excuse me?— I manage to splutter around the lead that is my tongue.

He half smiles at my shock, placing his index finger under my chin and pushing my gaping mouth shut.

—I'll leave that one with you.— He releases my elbow.

I flash him a displeased scowl before I walk back to the table as steadily as my boneless legs will allow. Did I really just hear him right? I slide myself onto the chair, immediately glugging down my wine to try and moisten my parched mouth.

When I look up at Luna, she's open mouthed, exposing half chewed chips and bread. It's not attractive.

—Who the fuck is that?— she mumbles around her food.

—Who?— I look around, simulating unawareness.

—Him,— Luna points with her fork. —Look!

—I saw, and I don't know.— I grate. Drop it!

—He's coming over. You sure you don't know him? Fuck, he's hot!— She looks at me. I shrug.

Please, go away. Go away, go away! I pick up a stray piece of lettuce from my BLT and start nibbling at the edges. I'm tense all over, and I know he's getting closer because Luna's gaze is lifting upwards to accommodate his height. I wish she would shut her bloody gaping mouth!

—Ladies,— His low, throaty voice prickles at my skin, doing nothing to relax me.

—Hi,— Luna spits, chewing rapidly to rid her mouth of the obstruction to speech.

—Ginny?— he prompts. I wave my piece of lettuce at him to acknowledge his presence but without having to look at him. He laughs lightly.

Out the corner of my eye, I see his body slowly lowering until he's squatting at the table next to me, but I still refuse to look at him. He rests one arm on the table, and I hear Luna cough and splutter on the remnants of her food.

—That's better,— he says. I can feel his breath on my cheek.

Reluctantly, I look up through my lashes and find Luna gawking at me all wide eyed and yes he's still there talk you idiot! I can think of nothing to say. Once again, this man has rendered me useless. I hear him sigh.

—I'm Harry Potter, pleased to meet you.— I see his hand reach across the table.

Luna takes it eagerly.

—Harry?— she splutters. —Oh! Harry,— I can feel her glaring at me accusingly. —I'm

Luna. Ginny mentioned you have a posh hotel.

I scowl across the table.

—Oh, she mentioned me?— he asks softly. I don't have to look at him to know he's displaying a smug, satisfied face at this news. —I wonder what else she's mentioned.

—Oh, this and that,— Luna flips casually, but it's too late to back track on her previous statement. I throw her my filthiest look.

—This and that.— he counters softly.

—Yes, this and that.— Luna affirms.

Fed up of the pointless little exchange that they both seem to be enjoying, I take the situation into my own hands, turning my eyes onto him.

—It was nice to see you, goodbye.

Our eyes latch immediately, and I'm ruined by his sludgy green eyes, all hooded, dark and demanding. I can feel his breath waver and it draws my eyes away from his, but only to his mouth. His lips are moist, slightly parted, and his tongue slowly creeps out of his mouth, running a leisurely path across his bottom lip. I can't take my eyes off him. Without any encouragement at all, my own tongue responds with a happy little adventure across my bottom lip. It betrays my effort to appear emotionless… unaffected. I'm so affected.

This is crazy. This… whatever this is… it's just crazy. He's over confident and arrogant, but probably has the right to be. I desperately do not want to be affected by this man.

—Nice?— He leans forward, grasping my thigh, causing hot liquid lava to flood my groin. I shift my legs, squeezing my thighs together to restrict the pulsation that threatens to break out into a full, hard throb. —I could think of lots of words, Ginny. Nice is not one of them. I'll leave you to consider my question.

Oh, good Lord! I gulp as he leans into me at half height, pressing his damp lips against my cheek, holding his kiss forever. I clench my teeth in an effort not to turn into him.

—Soon.— he whispers. It's a promise. He releases my tense thigh and rises. —It was nice to meet you, Luna.

—Hmmm, you too.— she responds thoughtfully.

He strides off towards the back of the bar. Good God, he walks with purpose and it's sexy as hell. I close my eyes to mentally gather my wits, which are currently dispersed all over the bar floor. It's completely hopeless. I turn back to Luna, finding accusing bright gray gawking at me like I've just sprouted fangs. Her eyebrows hit her hairline.

—Fuck me, that was intense!— she spits across the table.

—Was it?— I start pushing my sandwich around my plate.

—You better stop with the blah-fucking-zay shit now, or I'll shove this fork so far up your arse, you'll be chewing metal. What question are you considering?— Her tone is fierce.

—I don't know,— I brush her off. —He's attractive, arrogant and has a girlfriend.— I try for vague. Luna lets out a long, over amplified whistle.

—I've never experienced that before. I've heard of it but never witnessed it.

—What are you on about?— I snap.

She leans across the table, all serious.

—Ginny, the sexual tension batting between you and that man was so fucking super charged, even I was horny!— She laughs.—'He wants you bad. He couldn't have made it any clearer if he'd have spread you on that pool table.— She points, and I actually look.

—You're imagining things.— I snort. I know she's not, but what can I say?

—I've seen the text, and now I've seen the man in the flesh. He's hot… for an older guy.— She shrugs.

—I'm not interested.

—Ha! You keep telling yourself that.

I scowl across the table at my best friend.

—I will.

—Let me know how that works out for you.— she shoots back, rather flippantly.

HG HG HG

I return to the office and spend the rest of the day achieving absolutely nothing. I twiddle my pen, visit the toilet a dozen times and pretend to listen to gOLIN harp on about Gay Pride and all things camp. My phone has rung four times, all Harry Potter, and I've rejected each and every call. I'm staggered by this man's persistence and confidence.

How loud?

I'm stunned!

I'm happy and enjoying my new found freedom, and I have no intention of derailing my plans to be single and carefree. I'm not getting caught up with a handsome stranger, no matter how handsome he is.

And oh, is he mind meltingly delicious. Anyway, he's way too old for me. And more importantly, he's obviously taken. And that only reinforces the fact that he's an ultimate player. This is not the sort of man I need to be attracted to, damn me, especially after Dean and his infidelities. I need a man, eventually, who'll be faithful, protective and look after me preferably a bit nearer my age too. How old is he?

My phone declares a text, making me jump and snapping me from my wandering thoughts. I already know who it is before I look.

Being rejected isn't very nice. Why won't you answer my calls?

H x

I laugh to myself, drawing the attention of Lavander, who's rummaging through the filing cabinet near my desk. Her perfectly plucked eyebrow arches. I don't suppose he is use to rejection.

—Luna.— I offer, by way of an explanation. It seems to work, as she returns to sifting through the cabinet.

It should be obvious why I'm not answering my bloody phone. I don't want to talk to him. He unnerves me, triggering too many reactions. And, quite frankly, I don't trust my body around him. It seems to respond to his presence with no prompt from me or my brain, and that could be very dangerous indeed.

My phone rings again and I quickly reject it. Christ, give me a chance to reply! Am I even going to reply? I'm never going to get rid of him. I need to be brutal.

If you need to discuss your requirements, you should be calling Albus, not me.

There. No sign off and definitely no kiss. I've not said in so many words, but he should get the message.

I put my phone down, all set on getting something done, but it chimes again. I pick it straight back up, grabbing my coffee with my spare hand as I do.

My requirement is to make you scream. I don't think Albus can help me there. I'm gagging just thinking about it. That's a thought… will I need to gag you?

H x

I spray coffee all over my desk as I cough. The cheeky sod! How brazen and unashamed can a man be? Does he think I'm easy or something? I switch my phone to silent, chucking it down on my desk in disgust.

I'm not even dignifying that with a response. Replying will only encourage him. There's a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and Harry Potter triple jumps that. I feel sorry for old pouty lips. Is she aware of her man pursuing young women?

I watch as my screen lights up again. I snatch it up, silencing it before it draws attention. I open my top drawer, drop it in and slam it shut on a huff. He'll get the message.

I make a meager attempt to carry on with some work, but I'm far too distracted. Strange words all having no place in work related correspondence are appearing in my emails as I absentmindedly tap away at my keyboard. The office phone rings.

Glancing up, I see Hermione away from her desk, so I answer.

—Good afternoon, Hogwarts Union.

—Don't hang up!— he blurts down the phone. I sit up straight in my chair. Even his urgent voice prickles my skin. Get the message, he will not. He's really quite thick skinned. —Ginny, I'm really very sorry.

—You are?— I can't hide the surprise in my voice. Harry Potter doesn't look like the kind of man to offer apologies willy-nilly.

—Yes, really, I am. I've made you feel uncomfortable. I've overstepped the mark by a long shot.— He sounds sincere enough. —I've distressed you. Please accept my apology.

I wouldn't say I was distressed by his bold behavior and comments. Shocked would be more apt. Some people might even admire his confidence, I suppose.

—Oh, okay,— I say hesitantly. —So, you don't want to make me scream or gag me?

—Ginny, you sound disappointed.

—Not at all,— I blurt.

There's a brief silence before he speaks again.

—Can we start again? I'll keep it professional, of course.

Oh no. He might be sorry, but that doesn't extinguish the affect he has on me. And it doesn't escape my thoughts that this is just a ploy to get me back on side so he can re-commence pursuing me.

—Mr Potter, I'm really not the right person for this job,— I swivel in my chair to check if Albus's in his office. He is. —Can I transfer you to Albus?— I push, mentally pleading for him to take the hint.

—It's Harry. You make me feel old when you call me Mr Potter.— he grumbles.

I slam my mouth shut when my lips part and that question nearly falls out. I'm still intrigued on that subject, but I'm not going to ask again.

—Ginny, if it makes you feel better, you can deal with Remus. What would be the next stage?

Oh? Would it make me feel better? Big guy has intimidation in equal measure to Potter's boldness. I'm not sure I would feel any more comfortable with his offer to replace himself with Remus. But the fact he's prepared to do this, tells me he really does want me to do the designs and that, I suppose, is a compliment. The Manor will be a great addition to my portfolio.

—I would need to measure the rooms and draw up some schemes.— I spit the words out impulsively.

—Perfect,— He sounds relieved. —I can get Remus to take you around the rooms. He can hold your tape measure. Tomorrow?

Tomorrow? He's keen. As it happens, I can't. I've got various appointments dotted across the day, and Wednesday's out too.

—I can't do tomorrow or Wednesday, I'm sorry.

—Oh,— he says quietly. —Do you do evenings?

Oh, do I? Well, I don't like doing evenings, but many clients work nine to five jobs and are unavailable during the working day. I prefer evenings to weekends. I never get dragged into weekend appointments.

—I can do tomorrow evening.— I blurt, turning the page in my diary to tomorrow. My last appointment is at five with Mrs Kent. —Seven-ish?— I ask, already pencilling him in.

—Perfect. I would say that I'll look forward to it, but I can't look forward to it because I won't be seeing you.— I can't see him, but I know he's probably grinning. I can hear it in his tone. He just can't help himself. —I'll let Remus know to expect you at seven.

—ish,— I add. I don't know how long it'll take me to get out of the city at that time of day.

—ish,— he confirms. —Thank you, Giny.

—You're welcome, Mr Potter. Goodbye.— I hang up and commence tapping my fingernail on my front tooth.

—Ginny?— Albus calls from his office.

—Yes?— I swing my chair to face him.

—The Manor, they want you, flower.— He shrugs, returning to his computer screen.

No, he wants me.


	4. Chapter 4

I fly through Tuesdays appointments, leaving Mrs Kent's lovely new town house at just past six. Mrs Kent is the extremely high maintenance wife of Mr Kent, MD of Kent Yacht Builders, and this Kensington house is their third home in four years. I've redesigned the interior on all of them. No sooner are the works completed, Mrs Kent decides she can't envisage growing old there, she's seventy, if a day, so the house is on the market, sold and I'm starting from scratch on their new abode. I was slightly paranoid when they up sticks, selling the first home that I worked on only a month after works were completed, especially as it was my first cmontract when I started working for Albus. But she was soon scheduling an appointment for me to view their new place, crooning down the phone.

—Ginny dear, it's not you. It just didn't feel like home.

So, I'm now on the third Kent residence, the specification being the same as the last two houses, which is convenient because I don't have to source any freestanding furniture. It also softens the blow on Mr Kent's wallet.

I jump in my car, setting off for Grimmauld Place. I didn't divulge to Luna the reason why I'm going to be home late. Telling her would only fuel her curiosity as to why I'm returning to The Manor. I would, of course, lie and feed her the same crap that I've fed myself, that the addition of The Manor's works would benefit my portfolio. The magnet of lean loveliness has zero influence on my decision, none at all.

I stop at the intercom this time, but as I press to release my window, the gates start opening. I look up to the camera and figure Remus must be waiting. I did say sevenish and its five past now. I drive through the gates, up the gravel road until I reach the courtyard. Remus's waiting on the steps for me, filling the double doorway, sunglasses firmly in place.

—Good evening, Remus.— I greet, grabbing my folder and bag. Will he speak today?

No, he nods and turns, walking back into The Manor, leaving me to follow him into the bar. It's busier than when I was last here. It's probably the time of day.

—Mario?— he rumbles.

A little man pops up from behind the bar.

—Yes?

—Get Miss Weasley a drink, please.— Remus turns his concealed eyes back to me. —I'll be back. Harry wants a quick word.

—With me?— I blurt, blushing slightly at my abruptness.

—No, with me,

—Is he staying in his office?— I ask nervously. I'm asking too many questions about something so trivial, but he assured me he would leave me and Remus to it. Even the thought of the man reduces me to a nervous wreck. I never thought I would think this, but I do actually feel more comfortable with the big guy. For a start, I trust myself with him. Remus lips twitch, clearly trying to fight a smile. I inwardly groan. He knows.

—S'all good, girl.— He turns, giving Mario a funny look, which the little barman acknowledges with a flick of his cloth. What's that all about?

Remus nods sternly before striding out, leaving me with Mario at the bar.

I gaze around, noticing a woman laughing with a middle aged man at a table nearby. It's the woman I saw in the toilets when I was here last Friday. She's wearing a black trouser suit and looks extremely professional. She must be staying a while business, maybe? The man accompanying her rises from the table, putting his hand out politely. She accepts it with a smile as she stands, letting him tuck her under his arm and lead her out of the bar as they chat and giggle.

I perch on a bar stool to wait for Remus, taking my phone out to check for messages and missed calls.

—You would like wine?

I look up, finding the little barman smiling at me. He speaks with an accent, and I conclude that he's Italian. He's very short and rather sweet, with his mustache and receding black hair. —I could do with one, but I'm driving.

—Ah!— he exclaims. —Just a small one,— He holds a small wine glass up, drawing a line across the middle with his finger.

Oh, sod it! I shouldn't drink on the job, but my nerves are shot to bits. He's in this building somewhere and that's unsettling enough. I nod on a smile.

—Thank you.

He holds up a bottle of Zinfandel. I nod again.

—Your dress is very, urhh…how you say...striking?— He pours a little more than half a glass. In fact, it's full.

I look down at my black, structured, figure hugging dress. Yes, I suppose striking would be a word you could use. It's my if all else fails dress. I always feel nice in it. I ignore the little voice in my head asking me if I wore it in the hopes of seeing Potter. I snap a lid on that thought immediately and laugh at Mario's careful choice of words, taking the glass as he passes it over the bar on a smile. I think he means tight. It shows every curve I have. Considering I'm a size ten, there are not many, but if I live with Luna for much longer, that may change.

—Thank you.— I smile.

—Pleasure, Miss Weasley. I leave you in peace.— He picks up his cloth and starts wiping the granite counter under the optics.

I sip my wine as I wait for Remus. It goes down too well and before I know it, I've drank the lot. I can't wait to get home so I can dig into the bottle being kept chilled in the fridge.

—Hello.

I swivel on my stool, coming face to face with the woman that was draped all over Potter on Friday.

She smiles at me, but it's the most insincere smile I've ever had the pleasure of receiving.

—Hi.— I say politely.

I see Mario come rushing over with a panic stricken face, waving his cloth in the air.

—Miss Romilda! No, please. No talk.

What?

—Oh, shut up Mario! I'm not stupid.— she spits.

Poor Mario flinches before returning to wiping the bar, keeping his eyes on Romilda. I want to jump to his defense, but just as I'm contemplating doing exactly that, she puts out her hand.

—I'm Romilda, you are?

Oh yes, the last time she asked me that I didn't answer and left rather hastily. I accept her hand, shaking it lightly as she eyes me suspiciously. I can tell she doesn't like me. Perhaps she sees me as a threat.

—Ginny Weasley.— I offer, releasing my hold of her hand swiftly.

—And you're here because?

I laugh lightly. I'm sure she knows exactly why I'm here, which only serves to confirm that she's feeling threatened and going out of her way to make me feel uncomfortable. Sheath the claws, lady. I silently smile at the thought of telling her that it's because her boyfriend pleaded with me to be here.

—I'm an Interior Designer. I'm here to measure up the new bedrooms.

She arches an eyebrow, flicking her hand in the air to get Mario's attention. This woman is something else, with aloofness in equal measure to Potters boldness. Her blonde, layered hair is flicking here and there, her lips the same pouty red as they were on Friday, and she's wearing a fitted, grey trouser suit. I'm being unkind when I put her at forty. She's probably mid thirties, far closer to Potter in age than me. I quickly reign in my wandering thoughts, mentally slapping my own desperate arse.

—Sloe gin and tonic, Mario,— she demands past me. No please and no smile. She really is quite rude. —You're a bit young to be an interior designer, aren't you?— Her tone is unfriendly, and she doesn't look at me when she speaks.

I bristle. I really don't like this woman. What does Potter see in her, apart from over inflated, pouty lips and obvious breast implants?

—I am.— I agree. She feels threatened by my youth as well. Good.

I'm beyond relieved when Remus appears in the doorway. He pulls his glasses down, giving Romilda a peculiar look before nodding at me. What's with all these looks being thrown around? I don't dwell on it, though. Remus nod is the cue I need to escape this woman. I place my empty glass on the bar more forcefully than I intend to. Mario's head snaps up, and I smile an apology, lowering myself from the stool.

—Nice meeting you, Romilda.— I say pleasantly. It's a lie. I don't like her, and I know the feeling's mutual.

She doesn't look at me. She accepts the drink that Mario hands her, without so much as a thank you, and walks off to chat with a male business type at the other end of the bar.

When I reach Remus, he leads me up the grand staircase to the gallery landing and through to the new extension.

—I'll be fine on my own, Remus. I don't want to keep you.— I offer him the chance to leave me to it as he leads me down the corridor.

—S'all good, girl.— he rumbles, opening the door into the furthest room.

We start measuring up, working our way back through the rooms. Remus dutifully holds the tape measure for me, nodding every so often when I give direction. The phrase "A man of few words" was invented with Remus in mind, I'm sure. He talks with his nods, and even though his eyes are covered with his sunglasses, I can identify when he's looking at me. I make all the notes I need in my folder, ideas thrashing around in my head already.

An hour later, I have all the measurements I need and we're done. I follow Remus huge body back onto the gallery landing, as I search for my phone within my bag. I soon realise that in my desperation to get shot of Romilda, I left it on the bar.

—I've left my phone in the bar.— I mutter to Remus back.

—I'll make sure Mario's picked it up. Harry wanted me to show you one of the other rooms before you go.— he informs me evenly.

—Why?

—So you get an idea of your brief.— He puts a keycard in the slot, opens the door and ushers me in.

Oh, okay. It can't hurt, and I am interested.

Wow! I walk into the middle of the room. Well, mini-suite would better describe it. The floor space is probably bigger that Luna's flat. Hearing the door close behind me, I turn to see Remus has left me to take it in on my own. I stand absorbing the opulent spender of the décor.

These rooms are more lavish than the ones downstairs, if that's possible. A giant bed dominates the room, dressed in rich satin linen in deep purples and gold. The wall behind the bed is papered in an embossed, intense swirling of dull gold, and heavy thick curtains pool the thick, bouncy carpet. The lighting is dim and soft. One of Potter's key requirements was sensuality, and whoever designed this room has achieved it in abundance. Why doesn't he just re-employ this designer?

I wander over to the huge, sash window and look out over the rear grounds. The land The Manor stands on is vast, the views tremendous and the lush greenness of the Surrey countryside is rolling for miles and miles beyond. It really is quite special. I walk over and run my palm across a lovely dark wooden chest of drawers. I place my folder and bag on the top before lowering myself onto the chaise lounge in the window.

I sit and take in my surroundings. It's incredible and would undoubtedly rival many of the most famous hotels spread across the world's biggest cities. A huge wall hanging grabs my attention. It's quite odd but beautifully made. It must be an antique. Half attached to the wall and drifting up onto the ceiling where the huge beams span, it's grid like in appearance, but there's no material or lighting adorning it. I tilt my head on a frown, but then fly up to standing position when I hear a noise coming from the bathroom.

Oh shit. He's put me in an occupied room…or has he? I can't hear anything now. I keep myself still and quiet, trying to listen for movement, but there's nothing. I relax a little, but then I hear the door handle on the bathroom shift and my head snaps up. Oh, heck.

I should be running to escape before some poor sod comes out of their bathroom, possibly naked, and finds a strange woman, standing like a complete plum, in the middle of their posh suite. I pelt towards the chest of drawers to retrieve my bag and swing around towards the exit. I gasp, dropping my bag to the floor.

I'm frozen on the spot and staring at Harry Potter. He's standing in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of loose fitting jeans.


	5. Chapter 5

He remains silent as I look at him in shock, waiting for an explanation. I get nothing, except for his intense, green eyes gazing at me from across the room. I feel like I'm under a microscope, and that glass of wine is on spin cycle in my stomach, churning around and around as I shift nervously on my heels.

—Is this some kind of joke?— I half laugh. I'm still waiting for enlightenment, but it's not forthcoming.

I try to ignore the mass of magnificent man and frantically search my brain for guidance or instruction. It's useless. I'm not blind. I'll happily volunteer that I've imagined his chest, more than once, and it exceeds even my highest imaginations and expectations. This man is way past perfect. What should I do?

He's just standing there, with his head slightly lowered, staring up at me through his long lashes. His eyes are piercing me, his mouth slack, and I can see the rise and fall of his incredible chest. There's some serious definition; not too bulky, just clean…cut… perfection. If he's devastating fully clothed, then he's seizure worthy now. I take a deep breath.

Oh God, he has the V. His heavy breathing is causing his muscles to roll and ripple, the increased swells putting the stoppers on his attempt to appear unaffected. He's really affected. What's he doing there like that? Stood with only a pair of jeans on, looking all freshly shaven, revealing even more beauty? I mentally slap myself. It's obvious what he's playing at. I knew I shouldn't have trusted him.

He's unreal and so bloody forward – it's almost unattractive…almost.

I laugh lightly to myself. It's not unattractive, not at all. I'm a pooling mass of want.

Was I hoping to see him? Yes, I'll admit that. But like this? Yes, actually, I was. I've thought of little else since I laid eyes on him.

His arms drape by his sides, but his stance is confident and determined. He's staring at me with complete intent, his look telling me I'm about to melt with pleasure. I should leave, but as much as I think I need to, as much as I'm battling with my sensible side to run, I don't. Instead, I run my eyes down his jean clad thighs, noticing the bulge at his groin. He's absolutely turned on, and judging by the coiled pang of desire that has just sprung into my stomach, so am I.

My body clams up with panic, battling between my conflicting sides, the sensible side, telling me to get the hell out of here, and my dangerous side, pleading with me to stay and take what he wants to give.

This is wrong. I was just chatting to his girlfriend downstairs. Well, not chatting. Chatting would imply that it was a friendly converse, it wasn't.

My debating brain has got me shifting my position as I part my lips to draw a steadying breath. I flex my neck.

—Relax, Ginny,— he soothes me quietly. —You know you want this.

I almost laugh. Who wouldn't? Look at him. I stand motionless, the only visible movement is my heart hammering out of my chest, and it increases tenfold when he slowly begins to walk towards me, his eyes fixed on mine.

When he's a few feet away, his fresh, minty scent engulfs my nose, sending my body involuntarily rigid. I don't know how I manage it, but I keep my eyes to his, lifting them to maintain contact as he nears, until he's standing before me. He's as close as he can be without physically touching me. If there's a Def Con One version of high alert for the human body, then I'm in it now.

—Turn around.— he orders gently.

I conform without even a thought or hesitation, slowly turning away from him as I puff my cheeks out and clench my eyes shut. What am I doing? I didn't falter in the slightest. My shoulders are tensing, anticipating his touch, and no amount of mental encouragement to relax is paying off. The only sound breaking the screaming silence is the heavy breathing coming from both of us. I stand for a few moments, then go to turn and face him again, but I'm stopped in my tracks when two firm, warm, slightly shaky hands rest on my shoulders, keeping me from following through on my intent. His touch makes me flinch, and he releases one hand slowly, as if to ensure I'll stay still. My loose hair is gathered into his hand and released to fall down my front. In my own private darkness, I can hear my head demanding I run away, but my body has a whole other agenda. It's defiantly ignoring any instructions from my brain. His hand returns to my shoulder and slowly massages my tense muscles. The feeling is divine, my head rolling in appreciation as a small sigh escapes my lips. The pressure increases, and I soak up the delicious movements of his talented hands as I feel his hot minty breath getting closer to my ear. I shudder, moving my face towards the source. I know this is inviting, but right at this moment, I've lost all sense. I want more.

—Don't stop this.— he whispers, the vibrations of his voice propelling shockwaves throughout my body.

I'm physically shaking. It's way beyond my control.

My breath catches at the back of my throat.

—I don't want to.— My voice is unrecognisable. I can't believe he's captured me like this; I can't believe I'm accepting this.

—It's a good job. I don't think I'd let you.— He presses his entire front against my back, his mouth dropping to my ear. —I'm going to take your dress off now.

My nod of agreement is almost non-existent, but he catches it and answers by nipping my earlobe, which only assists in raising the relentless pressure in my already throbbing core.

—You're too fucking beautiful, Ginny.— he purrs, skimming his lips across my ear.

—Oh god,— I lean back into him, his erection throbbing through his jeans, pulsing into my lower back.

—Do you feel that?— He circles his hips. I moan. —I'm going to have you, lady— His words are spoken with absolute conviction.

I'm a complete slave to them. I know he's bound to have had practice in this area; he must have the gift of seduction down to a fine art. I'm not in denial. Women must be falling at his feet on a daily basis. He's a well-trained master, seeing and taking what he wants, but it doesn't bother me in the slightest. Right now, I'm here for the taking, with no conscience and no indecisiveness. Caution has been wholly and absolutely thrown to the wind. What harm can it do?

I feel his index finger start at the base of my back, trailing a slow, definite stroke up the centre of my spine, causing my head to roll freely. I plead with my hands to remain at my sides, when all I want to do is turn and devour him, but he's already stopped me from turning to face him once. He clearly likes to be in control.

As he reaches the very top of my dress, he grasps the zip and places his hand on my hip. I jerk. It's my ultimate tickle spot and any friction on my hip bone, or the hollow above it, sends me through the roof.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I use every ounce of willpower I possess to disregard the contact. It's hard, but the sheer size of his hand splayed across my hip grounds me, keeping me immobile.

The zip of my dress slowly lowers and I hear him gasp at the exposure of my bare skin. He removes his hand from my hip, and I'm stunned when I miss the heat immediately. But then I feel both hands slide under the material of my dress and rest on my bare shoulders. His fingers flex as he pushes my dress away from my front before slowly dragging it down my body, letting it fall to the floor.

His breath catches, and I thank everything holy that I put on decent underwear. I'm stood in my bra, knickers and heels, and at the complete mercy of the Adonis looming behind me. What the hell am I doing?

—Hmmm, lace.— he whispers. My waist is griped and I'm lifted out of the pooling dress before being turned to face him. In these heels, my eyes are level with his chin and with a little flick upwards, I'm focused on his full, beautiful lips and wishing he would lay them on mine. I'm swiftly losing my selfcontrol and my conscience has long left the building. I'm wanton, and with this man, easy.

He lifts a hand to my breast and circles my nipple through my bra with his thumb, his gaze focused on his movements. My nipples tingle at the contact, lengthening behind the material of my bra. A small smile plays at the corners of his lips. He knows the affect he's having on me. He introduces his index finger and tweaks the stiff nub, causing my breasts to throb, becoming heavy, aching mounds. I'm completely rapt by this man studying me so closely, working me up into a shaking, desperate mess. I still can't believe I'm doing this, but damn, can I stop it?

I watch as he brings his other hand up to palm my other breast. I can no longer keep my hands off of him. My arms lift and my palms settle on his chest. The warmness and firmness hitches my breath. I start to trail my finger down the void between his pecs, smiling to myself when I feel him flinch under my touch and groan low in his throat. Before I can make the most of the access to his body, he turns me back around, and I want to cry inside.

—I want to see you.— I breathe.

—Shhhh.— He hushes me, unclasping my bra and running his hands under the straps.

He lowers them down my arms, letting it drop to the floor, before his hands find my breasts and knead deliberately. He continues to breathe hot, heavy breaths in my ear.

—You.and.me.— he growls and spins me around, crashing his lips against mine, robbing me of breath. I'm back to where I want to be. His tongue skims my bottom lip, seeking entry, and I don't deny him. I accept him into my mouth, our tongues dueling, his mouth hot, his tongue lax but severe. I fling my arms over his shoulders to pull him closer as he presses his groin into my lower stomach. His erection is as hard as steel and bidding for escape from the confines of the denim encasing it. Every part of him feels perfect. It's everything I imagined.

A low moan escapes his mouth as both of his hands drift up my back to cup my head, his fingers splayed around the back, the heel of his palms resting on my cheek bones. He breaks the kiss and I whimper at the loss. His shoulders are rising and falling with the deep breaths he's struggling to get into his lungs, and he rests his forehead against mine with his eyes clenched shut. He looks in pain.

—I'm going to get lost in you.— he breathes, his hand traveling back down the curve of my spine to the rear of my thigh. With one gentle tug, he pulls my leg up to rest against his hip, cupping my bum with his other. He searches my eyes desperately. —There's something here,— he whispers. —I'm not imagining it.

No, he's not. I think back to Friday, when I first laid my eyes on him. I felt like I'd been electrocuted, all sorts of strange reactions firing off in my mind and body. That wasn't normal, and I'm so relieved that I wasn't the only one to feel it.

—There's something.— I confirm quietly, watching as his eyes change from uncertainty to complete satisfaction.

I'm stood on one leg, semi draped around his waist, ready to jump the gun and wrap my other leg around him. I need to feel all of him. I need his lips on mine. As if reading my mind, he tilts his head and lowers his mouth to mine, but this time he's calmer as he gently brushes his lips over mine at the most dreamy pace. He tilts his pelvis into me, and I instantly recognise the start of a huge build up of pressure in my groin. I'm powerless to control it; I don't want to control it.

Grinding his hips against me, he continues to take my mouth slowly, the combined sensation having me tinkering on the edge. One touch and I'm likely to explode. His kiss hardens, the grinding of his hips increasing.

—Oh, Jesus,— he mumbles against my lips. —Don't ruin this.

Don't ruin this? Why is he pleading with me, or is he pleading with himself? But then it all becomes clear when I hear someone calling Harry's name. I recognise the cold, unfriendly voice as Romilda's. And just like that, my building pleasure dies of death, retreating faster than it came.

Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off! I'm screaming it repeatedly in my head. My languid, worked up body suddenly stiffens, my fingers digging into Harry's shoulders. What am I doing? His girlfriend is prowling around, possibly outside, and I'm shacked up in here with her boyfriend's hands all over me. I'm hideous!

He deepens the kiss, pushing onto my lips to the point of pain, his tongue invading my mouth with urgency. I know he's trying to keep me in the game. He releases my thigh and brings his hands to my hips to keep me still. He thinks I'm going to run. I am going to run. He releases my lips, my head dropping automatically.

—The door's locked.— he assures me quietly.

I can't carry on with this now! I may not like the woman, but I'm not a home wrecker. I've done some damage, but I can stop this progressing to the point of no return. He brings one hand up to seize my jaw, tilting my head up and holding it firm as he focuses his green pools straight on me. His frown line is clear as he searches my eyes for something, hope, I think.

—Please.— he mouths.

I shake my head slightly in his grasp, my gaze plummeting to his chest, my eyes squeezing shut. His hand tightens on my hip and he shakes my jaw slightly in a desperate attempt to drag me out of the shell I've crawled into.

—Don't run.— He almost grinds the words out, making it sound more like an order.

—I can't do this.— I whisper, feeling his hands drop away from me on a frustrated growl.

—Harry?— I hear Romilda's voice again, but closer this time.

In a complete daze, I scoop my dress up from the floor before running into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and flipping the lock. I lean against the back of the door, virtually naked, trying to control my erratic breathing. I look up to the ceiling in an attempt to prevent the tears from falling. I'm so disappointed with myself.

I think I hear the sound of muffled voices coming from the bedroom, and I try to stabilise my breathing so I can listen to what's going on. But, there's nothing. No noise, no talking…nothing. Damn me for being half naked so I can't escape. Instead, I've resorted to fleeing into the bathroom, hiding like the desperate tart that I am. I'm not comfortable with these feelings. I'm truly ashamed of myself. I've been cheated on plenty of times, and I've annihilated all of those women who've intruded on my relationships. Over many a bottle of wine, I've condemned them, bad mouthed them and wished them some truly merciless reprisals. Now, I'm one of them. I groan, smacking the heel of my hand on my forehead.

Tart!

When I hear a door shut, I stiffen. Is that him leaving, or is he coming back? Either way, I need to get dressed. I search for my bra within the bunching material of my dress that's gathered in my hands, no bra. Shaking my dress out frantically, I pray for its appearance but still…nothing. I sigh and step into my dress, pulling it up my body and reaching around to fasten the zip. I'll have to do without because I'm certainly not attempting to retrieve it from the bedroom.

I walk over to the mirror to inspect myself. It's as I suspected; I look dreadful. My eyes are swimming with unshed tears, my lips swollen and red, and my cheeks are flushed. I look harassed; I am harassed. I try in vain to straighten myself out, so I can at least exit with a bit of dignity in tack, but there's no escaping the distraught look I'm displaying. This will be the ultimate walk of shame.

I flinch when there's a knock on the door.

—Ginny?

I keep quiet. Oh God, he sounds almost angry. I pull my fingers through my hair and dab my eyes with tissue to soak up the tears. I look no better, but I know I'll feel better when I'm out of here. Geeing myself up to face the music that's a disappointed man blocking my escape, I gingerly unlock the door. It flies open, nearly knocking me off of my feet, and Harry is filling the doorway. He is angry. And he's blocking my path.

I look past him into the bedroom, finding we're alone. He must be a bloody convincing liar because he's still shirtless, and there's no Romilda trying to rip my hair out. As if he has the right to look at me all disapproving and make me feel like a letdown. I push past him.

—Where the hell are you going?— he shouts after me.

I don't respond. I keep my pace up, grabbing my bag and stalking out onto the gallery landing, hearing Harry curse as I make my escape.

—Ginny!— he yells.

I take the stairs fast, glancing up as I go, spotting Harry flying out of the suite, fighting to get his t-shirt on. Detouring into the bar to collect my phone, I find Mario serving some gentlemen. My good manners prevent me from demanding it immediately, so I stand patiently and wait, fidgeting and flustering the whole time.

—Did you get what you came for?— Romilda's cold voice stabs at my flesh. Oh God, does she know? Is there a double meaning there?

I turn, plastering on a false smile.

—'You mean measurements? Yes.

She looks me over, her elbow resting on her hip, with her sloe gin and tonic suspended in front of her face. She knows. Oh, this is awful.

Harry races into the bar, skidding to a stop in front of us. I look at him in horror. Could he be any more obvious? I glance at Romilda to gage her reaction to this little scene, finding her looking thoughtfully at us both. She definitely knows. I need to leave, right now.

I turn back towards the bar. Thank God, Mario spots me.

—Miss Weasley, here, you must try.— He hands me a short of some sort.

—Do you have my phone, Mario?

—You try.— he demands.

In my desperation to get out of here, I knock the whole thing back in one foul gulp. It burns the back of my throat, continuing the burn as it makes its way down my throat and into my stomach.

My mouth forms an O as I squeeze my eyes shut.

—Wow!

—It is good?

I blow out a long, hot breath, handing the glass back to him.

—Yes. It's very good.— I begin to get the aftertaste of…cherries? He takes the glass, winks and hands me my phone.

I smooth my dress, taking a deep breath, before turning back to face the two people I never want to see again. I'm sure there's a gigantic, neon sign saying Tart flashing on my forehead.

—You left this upstairs.— Potter hands me my folder but doesn't release it when I tug gently.

—Thank you,— I frown at him as he stares at me, his brow completely furrowed as he chews his bottom lip. He finally lets it go, and I tuck it in my bag. —Goodbye.— I leave them both in the bar, making my way to my car. He can't pursue me with Romilda there to bear witness and that is a major relief. I get in and start my car, ignoring the voice in my head screaming "You're probably over the limit!"

This is so irresponsible of me, but desperation leaves me with no alternative. I reverse out of the space and see Harry come bounding out of the doors. He can't be serious? Why doesn't he just come out and tell her exactly what just happened?

Frantically, I shift into first gear, pulling off sharply and leaving a cloud of dust in my wake. I've never drove my Mini so erratically. As the fog of dust clears behind me, I see Harry in the rear view mirror, throwing his arms around in the air like some raving lunatic. I speed down the tree covered driveway, my head spinning, a mixture of drink and distress, trying to block everything out of my mind and concentrate on the road ahead of me. I'm in no state to be driving. All my senses are dulled, the drink only a minor contributing factor to my hysterical state of mind.

Glancing down at the dashboard, I note I'm driving stupidly fast and without the headlights or my seatbelt on. My head is all over the place. The gates come into view and I release the accelerator.

—Open,—please, open.— I plead as I pull to a standstill. —Open!— I thump the steering wheel in frustration and the horn screams, sending me on a startled jump in my seat. The sound of a car approaching drags my eyes to the rearview mirror. The headlights are getting closer.

—Oh, fucking hell!— I curse.

It skids to a stop behind me and the door flies open. Harry gets out and strides forward at a leisurely rate, but I'm not trying to kid myself that he doesn't look fuming. Just because he didn't get his rocks off? I dramatically slump my arms and head onto the steering wheel, feeling completely flattened. My aim to escape, no questions asked or explanations given, has been well and truly dashed, not that I owe him any explanations. The situation, in all its hideousness, speaks for itself.

The driver door is yanked open and he grabs my arm, gently pulling me from the car and taking my keys from the ignition.

—Ginny,— He looks at me all disapproving. I want to yell at him, but he gets in first.

—You're half pissed! I swear to God, if you'd of hurt yourself…—

I wince at his words, mentally scolding myself for being so reckless. I stand in front of him, soaking up his displeasure, feeling humiliated and pathetic. He grasps my jaw in his hand to look down at me. He's moving in for a kiss, I can see it in his eyes. Oh, please. I really don't need this. I pull my face from his grip.

—Are you okay?— he asks softly, reaching for me again.

I brush him off.

—Funnily enough, no, I'm not. Why did you do that?

—Isn't it obvious?

—You want me,

—More than anything,— he states flatly.

—What? I've never met anyone so full of themselves. Did you plan this? When you rang me yesterday, was this your intention all along?

—Yes,— he admits. There's absolutely no apology in his tone. —I want you.

I have no idea how to deal with this. He wants me, so he took me.

—Can you open the gates, please?— I start walking towards them, but they're still unmoving by the time I reach them. I swing around in the most threatening manner I can muster. —Open the damn gates!

—You honestly think I'm going to let you go wandering aimlessly out there when you're miles from home?

—I'll call a cab. It's not your concern. Open the gates.

—Absolutely not, I'll take you.

I look at his car. It's an Aston Martin, all black, shiny and beautiful, it figures.

—Just open the fucking gates!— I scream at him.

—Watch your fucking mouth!

Watch my mouth? Watch my bloody mouth? I want to thump him, fall to my knees and cry in frustration, proper howl at the moon wails. I feel such a fool – humiliated and ashamed.

—I'm not prepared to be a notch on your busy bedpost.— I spit. I have a little more self-respect than that…kind of.

—You actually believe that?— He's really very puzzled.

Give me strength. This man is the ultimate player, seeing and taking what he wants, when he wants it.

Who does he think he is? Our confrontation is interrupted when his mobile starts ringing.

It's swiftly removed from his pocket.

—Remus?— He turns and starts pacing. —Yeah…okay.— The call is ended quickly. —I'll take you home.— He holds his hand out.

—No, please. Just open the gates.— I'm pleading, and it wasn't the tone I was aiming for.

—No, I'm not letting you out there on you own, Ginny. End of. You're coming with me.

—I'm not.

—Yes, you are.

I snap my head up when a car pulls off the main road.

—Fuck!— Harry roars, yanking his phone back out of his pocket, at the same time trying to make a grab for me. The gates start to open and I run to grab my bag from my car.

—Remus, don't open the fucking gates.— he yells into his phone. —Well, tell Romilda not to!

As soon as the opening is big enough to allow, I squeeze through, just as they start closing again. I see Harry run to his car, bashing something on the dash board. The gates start opening again. Won't the man just give it a rest? I get my phone out and dial a cab number as I start walking down the lane. The call connects and I go to speak, but the wind is knocked clean out of me when I'm grabbed around my waist.

—What!— I scream as I'm hoisted from my feet, spun around and tossed over his shoulder.

—You're not wandering around on your fucking own, lady.— he grates, his tone full of authority, making me feel younger, or him older, I'm not sure.

—What's it got to do with you?— I spit. I'm boiling mad and bobbing up and down as he strides back to his car.

—Apparently, nothing, but I do have a conscious. You're not leaving here unless it's in my car. Do you understand me?— He places me on my feet, grasps my elbow and guides me into his car before slamming the door and getting into my Mini to move it to the side of the driveway.

I smirk as I watch him yank the lever to slide the seat back as far as it will go, but even at its furthest away from the wheel, he still struggles to cram his tall, lean body in. He looks pretty stupid. I want to yell at him some more when he wheel spins and skids to a stop. My poor Mini has never been so ill-treated.

He huffs his way back and throws himself in his car, giving me a ferocious scowl before he starts the car and roars off.

The journey home is painfully silent and frighteningly fast. The man is a menace on the roads, and I wish he would at least put the radio on to rid the car of the awkward silence.

I begrudgingly admire the interior of his DBS. I'm cradled in the seat, with acres of black, quilted leather surrounding me, as I stare out of the window the whole way home. I feel his eyes fixed on me every so often, but I ignore it. Instead, I concentrate on the guttural roar of the engine as it eats up the road ahead. What has just happened?

He pulls up outside Luna's, after I direct him in with short, sharp instructions, and I let myself out.

—Ginny?— I hear him call me, but I shut the car door and race up the path to the house, cursing out loud when I realise he's got my bloody car keys. I turn to make my way back down the path, but I hear the roar of his engine burning off down the road.

I screw my face up in my own private disgust. He's done that on purpose so I have to call him. Well, he'll be waiting a long time. I would rather go without my car. I traipse back up the path and bash on the door.

—Where are your keys?— Luna asks when she answers the door.

I think quickly.

—My car's having some new brakes. I forgot to remove my house keys.

She accepts my excuse with no further questions.

—There's a spare door key in the pot by the kitchen window.— She runs back up the stairs and I follow, immediately opening a bottle of wine before rummaging through the fridge for something to eat. Nothing takes my fancy. Wine will do.

—Yes, please.— Luna comes breezing back into the kitchen. She's already jimmy-jammed up, and I can't wait to join her. I pour her a glass, while trying to morph my face into anything other than the shocked expression that I know is still visible.

—Good day?— I ask.

She collapses into one of the mismatching chairs around the chunky, pine table.

—I spent most of the day collecting cake stands. You would think people would be kind enough to return them.— She takes a sip of her wine, gasping in appreciation.

I join her at the table.

—You need to start asking for a deposit.

—I know. Hey, I have a date tomorrow night.

—With who?— I ask, wondering if this one will make it past the first.

—A very yummy client. He stopped by to collect a cake for his niece's first birthday, a Jungle Junction cake. How sweet is that?

—Very sweet,— I agree. —How did that come about?

—I asked him.— She shrugs.

I laugh. Her confidence is charming. She must hold the world record for first dates. The only long term relationship she's ever had was with my brother, but we don't talk about that. Since they split and Charlie moved to Australia, Luna has been on endless dates, none of them progressing past the first.

—I'm going to get changed and give my Mum a call,— I get up, taking my wine with me. —I'll meet you on the sofa soon.

—Cool,

I really need to speak to my Mum. Luna's my best friend, but you can't beat your Mother when you just want comfort. Not that I can tell her why I need comforting. She would be horrified.

Once I'm changed into my baggy pants and a vest top, I flop onto my bed and dial my Mum. It rings once before she answers.

—Ginny?— Her voice is shrill, but still soothing.

—Hi, Mum.

—Ginny? Ginny? Arthur, I can't hear her. Am I doing it right? Ginny?

—I'm here, Mum. Can you hear me?

—Ginny? Arthur, it's broken. I can't hear anything. Ginny!

I hear my Dad's mumbled moans in the background before he comes on the line.

—Hello?

—Hi, Dad,— I yell.

—You don't have to bloody shout!

—She couldn't hear me.

—That's because she had the bloody thing upside down, stupid woman.

I hear my Mum laugh in the background, followed by a slapping sound that is, without doubt, her walloping my Dad's shoulder.

—Is she there? Can you hear her? Give me it here.— There's a little scuffle before she's back on the line. —Ginny? Are you there?

—Yes!— Why didn't I just ring the landline? She insisted I ring her new mobile so she can get the hang of it, but good God, she's hard work. She's only forty seven, but a complete techno-phobic.

—Ah. That's better, I can hear you now. How are you?

—Good. I'm good, Mum. You?

—Yes, everything's fine. Guess what? We have exciting news,— She doesn't give me a chance to guess. —Your brother's coming home to visit!

I sit up in excitement. Charlie's coming home? I've not seen my brother for six months. He's living the dream on the Gold Coast as a surf instructor and only comes home once or twice a year. We were so close. Luna's going to freak out over this news, and not in a good way.

—When?— I demand.

—Next Sunday. Isn't it exciting? I was only saying to your Dad last week that we should fly out to see him, but he won't get on a plane. You know what he's like.

My Dad's fear of flying is highly frustrating to my poor Mum, who has to endure a two day drive to Spain every year.

—Do you know what his plans are?— I press.

—He's flying into Heathrow, coming straight down to Ottery St Chatchpole for the week to see me and Dad, and then he's making his way back up to London. Will you come with him? You've not visited in weeks.

I suddenly feel rotten. I've not seen my parents for nearly eight weeks.

—'I've been so busy at work, Mum. I've got the Lusso launch, it's hectic. I'll try my best, okay?

—I know, darling. How's Luna?— she asks. Mum still loves Luna. She was as devastated as I was when she and Charlie called it quits.

—She's great.

—Good. Have you heard from Dean?— she asks tentatively. I know she's hoping it's a big resounding NO.

She wasn't as devastated when Matt and I split up. He wasn't Mum's favourite person. Come to think of it, Dean wasn't many peoples favourite person. We've talked since we split, but Mum doesn't need to know that.

—No, I'm just getting on with things.— I inform her, hearing her sigh in relief. I won't volunteer exactly what I have been getting on with. I'm too ashamed of myself.

—Okay. Arthur, get the door, will you? Ginny, I've got to go. Sue's here to pick me up for yoga.

—Okay, Mum. I'll ring next week.

—Okay. Good luck for your launch and have some fun!— she orders. I know she thinks I've wasted seven years on two worthwhile relationships. She's right. I have.

—Bye, Mum.

I hang up. Charlie's coming home. Well, that's cheered me up a little. And I always feel better when I've spoken to my Mum. They're miles away and I miss them like crazy, but I'm comforted by the fact that they've escaped the rat race of London, taking early retirement in Devon after Dad's heart attack scare.

My phone starts ringing and I look at the screen, expecting to see my Mothers number, she's probably forgot to lock the keypad and sat on it, but it's not. It's Harry Potter.

Ughhhhhhhhh!

—Reject.— I huff as I red button him and throw my phone on my bed. I leave my bedroom to go and join Luna on the sofa, hearing it ring again as I walk down the hall. I ignore it. The man is relentless. At least I don't have to see him again. He's given me the perfect reason to flatly refuse designing anything for him.


	6. Chapter 6

—Morning,— I sing to Colin as I sashay past his desk on Thursday.

He looks up at me over his thick framed spectacles, a blatant fashion statement and Colin's effort to be taken more seriously. I should tell him to lose the canary yellow dress shirt and grey trousers that are verging on leggings. That would do the trick.

—Did someone get laid?— He smirks. —Join the club, I'm exhausted!

—No! Colin, you're such a tart.— I feign a disgusted look as I throw my bag down by my desk. —Anything to report?— I ask to divert the conversation from Colin's sexcapades.

—Nope, I'm just going over to Mrs Baines to give her a cuddle. You know, she rang me at eleven last night to ask if she could expect the electricians in this morning. Interrupted me right in the middle of…

—Enough!— I hold my hands up. —I don't want to know.— I sit down, swinging my chair around to face him.

—Apologies, darling. It was really good though!— He winks. —Anyway, she's in a panic because her summer ball is scheduled for July and she wants all the works completed in time. There's not a hope, darling! If she would just stop changing her bloody mind, then we might get somewhere.— He springs up from his chair and air kisses me from ten feet away. —Au Revoir, darling!

—Bye. Oh, where's Lavander?— I shout after him.

—Appointments.— he calls, shutting the door behind him.

I turn to face my desk as Hermione places a coffee in front of me. I pick it up immediately, taking a sip while she hovers at my desk nervously.

—Albus called to remind you that he's not in today.— she says.

—Thank you, Hermione. Did you have a good weekend?

She smiles, nodding enthusiastically as she pushes her glasses up her nose.

—I did, thank you for asking. I finished my cross-stitch and cleaned all the windows, inside and out. It was wonderful.— she says dreamily as she scurries off to file some invoices.

Cleaning windows? Wonderful? The girl is sweet, but good Lord, she's as dull as dish water.

I spend a few hours working through my email to clear my inbox. I check the final clean-up of Lusso is complete and grab my phone when it starts dancing across my desk. I roll my eyes when I see who's illuminating my screen. He just will not give up. Yesterday was a relentless bombardment of calls, all of which I rejected, and he's still at it. I've got to speak to the man eventually. He has something that I need…my car.

At one o'clock, I leave the office to meet Luna for lunch.

—Are there any decent men left in the world?— she asks thoughtfully, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. —I'm losing the will to live.

—It wasn't that bad, was it?— I ask. Her date yesterday evening was a failure. When she walked into the apartment at nine thirty, I knew it couldn't be good news.

She drops her napkin on her empty plate, pushing it away.

—Ginny, when a man gets a calculator out at the end of a meal to work out what you owe, it's usually not a good sign.

I laugh. No, this is not a good sign; it's equality gone mad. The modern man needs to catch on to the fact that women want to be treated as equals, but only when it suits us. The modern woman's fierce need for independence doesn't mean we want to pay for our half of a meal, or that we don't want a man to hold a door open for us. We still want to be looked after, but on our terms.

—So, you won't be seeing him again?

She scoffs.

—No, the bill saga was bad enough. When he dropped me home in the taxi and accepted the twenty I offered him, it finished me off.

—You were a cheap date.— I giggle.

—Yeah.— She picks up her phone and starts tapping away at the screen, holding it up to show me. —One BLT and two waters, you owe twelve quid.— We both have a little laugh at Luna's failed date. I love that she can be so lighthearted about it. Luna maintains that it will happen when it happens. I'm with her on this.

—When will your car be ready?— she asks.

Crap! She's supposed to be borrowing it to visit her Nan in Yorkshire on Saturday, and it's Thursday already. I need to sort this out.

—I'll give the garage a ring later.— I assure her.

—I don't mind taking the van.

—No, it's fine. I don't think Margo will get you there.— She's a twenty year old, hot pink VW camper van that spits and fires all over London on cake deliveries. Luna's carbon footprint must be huge.

My phone shouts and Luna leans over to see who's calling me. I whip it off the table, far too hastily.

But it's too late. I look at her nervously as I red button him again, before placing it back on the table as casually as I can. My jumpy reaction doesn't get past Luna. Not much does.

—Harry,— she says with an arched brow. —What would he want?

I've not shared any of the hideous events of Tuesday with Luna. I'm too ashamed.

I shrug.

—Who knows?

—Have there been any more suggestive texts?

Oh, more than texts. There have been endless phone calls and the fact that he tricked me into going back to The Manor on the pretense that I was designing, only to have me trapped in one of his hotel suites so he could seduce me. Luna would thrive on my misfortune, which is exactly why I've not told her. If I don't hear the words out loud, then I can almost pretend it didn't happen…almost. I'm a fool. I've thought of little else, and he's not helping me in my attempt to eradicate him from my mind with all his calls. I don't need to be getting involved with anyone, especially someone who's already involved with someone else.

Besides, I'm just a mission for him to accomplish. The man's a playboy and not the sort of man I need to be getting involved with. He quite obviously has commitment issues. I don't like Romilda, but I do feel sorry for her.

—No.— I answer on a sigh.

She looks at me questioningly, making me feel like I'm under examination. I am. I'm twiddling my hair.

I release it on a huff.

—You deserve some fun.— she says thoughtfully. Fun? I don't call getting tied up with an involved man fun by any stretch of the imagination. I call it stupid! —After Dean, you definitely deserve some fun.

I'm keen not to get into a conversation about Dean. Luna doesn't know that he still calls me now and then. I don't know why he does.

—I've got to get back to work,— I lean over, giving Luna a peck on the cheek. —Luv ya.

—Yeah, ditto. I'll be late tonight. There's a cake convention at The Hilton.— She gets up, waving me away when I try to give her some money for lunch. —It's my turn.

I put my money back in my purse.

—Okay, but it's my shout next time.

We leave each other outside the bar, Luna heading back to her workshop, me back to the office.

HG HG HG

I collapse onto the sofa when I get home. I need an early night. Tomorrow will be a long day at Lusso and I need to be on form. My phone rings. I roll my eyes as I look at the screen, but it's not who I expected it to be. It's Dean. I groan to myself. When will my phone ring and it be someone that I actually want to speak to?

—Hi,— I all but groan.

—All right?— he greets, with his usual confident tone.

—Yeah, and you?— I know he's fine. I've heard he's out almost every night, catching up on lost time. Not that our relationship prevented him from living exactly how he wanted to anyway.

—All good. I was ringing to wish you luck for tomorrow. It's tomorrow, right?

I'm surprised he remembered. He never really took an interest in my career.

—Yeah, thanks. I was just thinking about getting an early night.

—Oh, okay, I won't keep you then,— He sounds disappointed. —I've boxed up the rest of your things.

—Oh, right,

—There's no rush,— he adds. —If you're free sometime, it would be nice to catch up.

It would? Catch up on what? How many women he's slept with since I left? It's nice that we're still on talking terms, I did spend four years with the guy, but he's taking the whole "let's be friends" role a bit too far, treating me like one of his mates and filling me in on all of his latest conquests. I don't care, but I also don't want to hear about it.

—Sure, I'll ring you.— I suggest.

—Make sure you do, I miss you.

WHOA! Where did that come from? Is he drunk?

—You do?— I ask. The shock in my voice is quite clear. He laughs.

—'I do. Good luck tomorrow.

I hang up and sit wondering if it's time to collect my things and sever all ties. I'm not so sure the friend's scenario is going to work with us. Does it ever work? My phone rings again, but it's a number that I don't recognise.

—Ginny Weasley. I announce down the line, but there's no reply. —Hello?

—Are you alone?

The voice hits me like a sledgehammer to the gut. Oh, fucking hell. I stand up and sit back down again. Visions of him stood half naked before me, pleading to me with his eyes, start to assault my mind's eye. This is exactly why I've been avoiding his calls. The affect he has on me is unsettling and most unwelcome. Why didn't his name come up on my phone?

—No.— I lie, a sweat breaking out across my brow.

I hear him sigh. It's a loud sigh.

—Why are you lying to me?

I jump back up from the sofa. How does he know? Darting across the lounge, my wine swishing out of my glass, I look out of the window to the road, but I can't see his car. How does he know I'm alone? In a panic and with a lump in my throat, I hang up. It rings again immediately. I chuck my phone onto the couch and let it ring off. And then it rings again.

—Go away!

I pace the lounge, biting my nails and swigging my wine. Tuesday's events flood back into my mind, but not the bad stuff. Oh, no…it's all the bloody good stuff. How he made me feel, how his hands felt on me.

Everything before I heard the shrill, cold voice of his girlfriend. I slam a lid on my thoughts immediately. I'm a pawn in his sexual exploits, and he's probably feeling hard done by after I pulled the plug on his charade. My phone declares a text message. I creep cautiously towards the sofa, like my phone might launch itself upwards and bite me.

For God's sake, I'm being pathetic. I grab my phone and open the text.

Answer your phone!

It rings again in my hand, making me jump, even though I completely expected it. He's relentless. I let it ring off again and, quite childishly, text back.

No

I pace some more, up and down, swigging wine and clutching my phone. It's not long before another text arrives.

Fine, I'm coming in.

—What? Oh no!— I shout at my phone. It is one thing ignoring the phone, but it's a whole other level of resistance trying to repel him when he's flesh and blood and looking right at me. Shit, shit, shit! I frantically pull up my call log to call him. It rings once.

—Too late, Ginny.— he drawls down the line. I stare at my phone in uncertainty, and then the banging starts.

I run onto the landing, leaning over the banister as he hammers on the door.

—Open the door, Ginny.— He bangs again.

What's he thinking? Is he that desperate?

Bang, bang, bang!

—Ginny, I'm not going anywhere until you talk to me, please.

Bang, bang, bang!

—I've got your keys, Ava. I'll let myself in.

Oh shit. He would as well. Okay, I'll let him in, listen to what he has to say, and then he can leave.

Anyway, I need my car back. I'll just have to keep as far away from him as possible, keep my eyes closed and hold my breath so I can't smell him. I must not let him breach my defences. I put my glass down on the console table at the top of the stairs and look at myself in the mirror. My hairs piled up on top of my head, but at least I haven't taken my make up off yet. It could be worse. Wait…why am I worried, anyway? The worse I look the better, surely? He needs telling to back off.

Bang, bang, bang!

I storm down the stairs in confident and determined strides, opening the door in a huff. I'm doomed. I keep underestimating – or forgetting – the affect this man has on me. I'm trembling already.

His hands are braced on the door frame as he looks up at me through hooded lids, panting and looking really quite pissed. His blonde hair is all disheveled, he has his stubble back and his pale pink shirt is undone at the collar, tucked into grey trousers. He looks delicious.

He punches holes into me with his sludgy eyes.

—Why did you stop it?— His breathing is laboured.

—What?— I ask impatiently. He's here to ask me that? Isn't it obvious?

He grits his teeth.

—Why did you run out on me?

—Because it was a mistake,— I grate, through equally gritted teeth. My irritation at his audacity is overpowering the other more unwelcome affect he's having on me.

—It wasn't a mistake, and you know it,— he grinds. —The only mistake was me letting you go.

What? Oh, I can't do this. I go to push the door shut, but his hand slams against the other side to stop it.

—Oh, no you don't.— He pushes against me, easily overpowering me, and steps into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. —You're not running this time. You've done it to me twice already, not again. You're going to face the music.

With bare feet, I'm almost a foot shorter than him. I feel small and weak as he towers over me, still breathing hard. I back away, but he walks forward, keeping the distance between us minimal. My plan to maintain space is failing fast, and he smells divine in all his minty, fresh water magnificence.

—You need to leave. Luna will be home in a minute.

He stops his approach, scowling at me.

—Stop lying,— he snaps, slapping my hand away from my hair. —Quit the bullshit,Ginny.

I have no idea what to say to him. Defence isn't working, maybe disinterest. He's incredibly thick

skinned and obviously use to getting what he wants.

I turn away to walk back up the stairs.

—Why are you here?— I ask, but before I make it very far, he's behind me and grabbing at my wrist. I'm spun around to face him, the contact putting me on instant red alert. I know I'm on dangerous ground here. Just being near this man turns me into a reckless, irrational fool. This is plain kamikaze territory. Why did I let him in?

—You know why.— he spits.

—Do I?— I ask incredulously. I do, actually. Well, I think I do. He wants to pick up where we left off. He wants mission accomplished.

—Yes, you do.— he says simply.

I yank my wrist from his grip, backing up until my butt hits the wall behind me.

—Because you want to hear how loud I'll scream?

—No!

—You are, undeniably, the most arrogant arsehole I've ever met. I'm not interested in becoming a sexual conquest.

—Conquest?— he snorts, turning away and commencing pointless pacing. —What fucking planet are you on, woman?

I stand there in utter shock. How dare he come here and start shouting the odds at me. I feel my unease disappear and my earlier irritation convert into boiling rage. The urgent need to defend myself, to put him straight, has my jaw clenched to aching point. His opinion of me is very low if he thinks I'll just jump into bed with any man I meet. But then, I don't have to answer to him. The fact that he has a girlfriend is immaterial at this point. He thinks he can just take what he wants or throw a wobbly if he meets some resistance.

—Get out!

He stops pacing and looks at me.

—No!— he yells, recommencing his marching.

I start thinking of how to get him out of the house. I'm never going to be able to manhandle him and

touching him would be a massive mistake.

—I'm not fucking interested! Now, get out.— My shaky voice lets down my cool front, but I stand firm.

—Watch your fucking mouth!— Oh, the cheek. —Get out!

—Okay,— he says simply, quitting the marching to hammer me with his stare. —Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want to see me again, and I'll go. You'll never have to lay eyes on me again.

Okay, that should be relatively easy, but to my utter shock, the thought of not seeing him again actually sends a nasty ache to my stomach, which is, of course, completely ridiculous. He's a virtual stranger to me, but God does he spark a reaction in me. He makes me feel... I'm not sure exactly what it is. But even now, when I'm raging at his damn nerve, I'm fighting to control the unwanted reactions he sparks in me.

When I say nothing, he starts advancing towards me, his long, even strides having him directly in front of me in just a few paces. There's barely an inch between us.

—Say it.— he breathes.

I can't get my mouth to function. I'm aware of my shallow breathing, pounding heart and a dull throb in my groin. I'm alert to similar reactions emanating from him. I can see his heart hammering under his pale pink shirt. I can feel his heavy, minty breath on my face. I can't vouch for the throb, but I suspect it's there.

The sexual tension ricocheting between our close bodies is tangible.

—You can't, can you?— he whispers.

I can't! I'm trying. I'm trying really hard, but the bloody words won't come out. The proximity of our bodies and him breathing on me is re-establishing all of those incredible feelings. I've been catapulted back to our previous encounter, except this time there's no risk of being interrupted by unfriendly girlfriends. Nothing to stop me, apart from my conscience, but that's drowning in desire right now, so it's of no help to me, whatsoever.

He places the tip of his finger on my shoulder, his touch sending an inferno racing through me, and slowly, lightly, he drags his finger up the column of my neck until it rests at the sensitive pressure point under my ear.

My heart goes into overdrive.

—Boom…boom…boom,— he breathes. —I can feel it,Ginny.

I go rigid, pushing myself further into the wall. —Please, leave.— I barely get the words out.

—Put your hand over my heart.— he whispers, grabbing my hand and placing it on his chest. He needn't have done that. I can see his heart going ten to the dozen under his shirt. I didn't need to feel it.

—What's your point?— I ask quietly. I know exactly what his point is. He's just as affected by me as I am by him.

—You are one stubborn woman. Let me ask you the same question.

—What do you mean?— I ask quietly, still not looking at him.

—I mean, why are you trying to stop the inevitable? What's your point,Ginny?— Wrapping his fingers around my neck, he tilts my face up so I meet his eyes.

I'm immediately consumed by them. His lips are parted and moist, his minty breath invading my nose, his blazing eyes staring down at me. His long lashes are fanning his cheek bones as he leans down so his lips brush my ear. I release a quiet gasp.

—There it is,— he murmurs as he trails feathery light kisses down the side of my throat. —You feel it.

I do. I'm incapable of stopping this. Any rational thinking has been besieged. I'm completely immobilised. My brain has shut down and my body is taking over. As his mouth works its way across my jaw, I reside myself to the fact that I'm lost, to him, I am lost. But then I hear the sound of a mobile phone ringing. It's not mine, but the interruption is enough to snap me out of the trance he sends me into. Oh God, it's probably Romilda.

I raise my hands to his firm chest and shove him away.

—Stop, please!

He pulls away, yanking his phone from his pocket.

—Fuck!— He rejects the call and looks at me. —You still haven't said it.

I'm staggered at my inability to utter some very simple words.

—I'm not interested— I whisper. I sound desperate, and I know it. —You have to stop this. Whatever you think you felt, what you think I felt, you're mistaken.— I don't mention Romilda because that would be admitting that I can feel something, that she's the only reason I'm stopping this. It's not, of course. There's the obvious age gap, the fact that he has heartbreaker written all over him, and the even more important part…he's a cheater.

He laughs a proper amused laugh.

—Think? Ginny, don't you dare try and pass this off as a figment of my imagination. Did I imagine that? Just then, was that my imagination? Give me some credit.

—You give me some fucking credit!

—Mouth!— he shouts.

—I told you to leave.— I say calmly.

—And I told you, look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want me.— He stares at me expectantly, like he knows I can't say it.

—I don't want you.— I murmur, looking straight into his green pools. It actually causes me physical pain.

I'm shocked.

He inhales sharply, looking wounded.

—I don't believe you.— he says softly, flicking his eyes to my twiddling fingers.

I remove them instantly.

—You should.— I define the words clearly, and it takes every bit of strength I have.

We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, but I'm the first to look away. I can think of nothing more to say, and I silently implore him to leave before I take the dangerous path I know he'll be.

He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, curses and stalks out. When the front door slams behind him, I allow air to rush into my lungs as I sag against the wall.

That was, irrefutably, the most difficult thing I've ever done, which is crazy, because by reason, it should have been the easiest. I can't even begin to understand the whys and wherefores of it. His wounded expression when I conformed to his demands to deny that I wanted him had nearly crippled me. I wanted to scream, "I felt it too!" but where would that have got me? I know exactly where, against the wall with Harry buried deep inside me. And while the thought of that makes me shiver with pleasure, it would be a gargantuan mistake. I feel riddled with guilt already at my deplorable behavior. The man is a cheating arse. An Adonis to boot, but a cheating arse, nonetheless. Everything about this man screams trouble. And he's still got my fucking keys.

I shudder and head for a shower, content that I've done the right thing. I've put Harry Potter in his place and saved myself another boat load of guilt. I shall ignore the painful ache in my gut because acknowledging it would be as good as admitting out loud, to myself and Harry, that…yes, I felt it too.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm wide awake and my alarm hasn't even gone off yet. On a long, drawn out sigh, I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom to take a shower. I've got a busy day at Lusso ahead of me so I may as well get started. I've not slept for shit, and I'm completely ignoring the reason why.

I'm going to be on my feet all day, traipsing around the complex ensuring everything is just right, so I chuck on some baggy ripped jeans , I can't bear to throw them away, a white burnt out t-shirt and my flip flops. I scrape my hair into a loose, messy up-do and pray it behaves later when I pin it up for the evening. I doubt I'll have time to come home and shower, so I get my mini suitcase and load it with everything I'll need to shower at Lusso later. I retrieve a suit bag and put my knee length, cherry red pencil dress in, smoothing it neatly and quietly hoping it doesn't crease. Lastly, I grab black suede heels, my black onyx studs and check my work case is loaded with everything I'll need at Lusso. It's going to be a ball ache lugging it all on the tube, but I have little other option with my car still being kept captive by a certain hot headed, arrogant male. Luna might well be taking Margo to Yorkshire.

As I walk down the stairs, I see my car keys lying on the door mat. So, the man's seen sense and freed my car. Does this mean he's also seen sense and given up pursuing me? Has he got the message? Perhaps he has, because there have been no calls or texts since he steamed out last night. Am I disappointed? I don't have time to consider this.

—I'm off,— I shout through to Luna. —My car's back.

She pokes her head around the door of her workshop.

—Great, good luck. I'll be there later to drink all the expensive champagne.

—Oh, yes. See you later.— I run down the path, halting when I see a cheap mobile phone smashed to pieces in the middle of the pavement. I know where that's come from. I kick it into the gutter and continue to my car. Oh, it's good to have her back. I load my things into the boot and jump into the driver seat, only to find myself miles away from the steering wheel.

Laughing, I shift the seat forward so my feet reach the pedals. I start her up and jump out of my skin when the stereo blasts Blur around my car. Christ, is his lack of hearing an indication to his age? I turn it down, faltering when the words of the track register. It's Country house. I fight the small part of me that wants to laugh at his little joke and remove the disc from the stereo. I don't think I've ever come across anyone so conceited in all my life. I replace the unwanted CD with a Ministry of Sound Chill out Session and head for St Katharine Docks.

When I pull up outside Lusso, I present my face to the camera and the gates open immediately. I park up and see the caterers unloading crockery and glasses as I get my work case from the boot and head into the building. I've been here a million times, but I'm still completely stunned by the pure extravagance of the place.

As I walk into the foyer, I see Ted, one of the concierges, playing with the new computer equipment. He's part of a team who'll provide a six star hotel-style service, organising anything from grocery shopping and theatre tickets, to helicopter charters and dinner reservations. I cross the marble floor, which has been polished to within an inch of its life, and head towards Ted's huge, curved concierge desk.

I spot dozens of black vases and hundreds of Italian red roses, placed carefully to the side. At least I won't have to chase the delivery of those.

—Good morning, Ted.— I say, approaching his desk.

He looks up from one of the screens, the panic on his friendly face clear.

—Ginny, I've read this manual four times in a week and I'm still clueless. We never had anything like this at The Dorchester.

—It can't be that difficult,— I soothe the old boy. —Have you asked the surveillance team?

He throws his glasses down on the desk in exasperation, rubbing his eyes.

—Yes, three times now. They must think I'm daft.

—You'll be fine,— I assure him. —When do they start moving in?

—Tomorrow. Are you all set for tonight?

—Ask me again this afternoon. I'll see you in a bit.

He smiles.

—Okay, love.— He turns his attention back to his instruction manual, muttering under his

breath.

I traipse across the floor and punch in the code for the penthouse elevator. It's private and the only one that goes to the top floor. I set about transporting and spreading the vases and flowers between the fifteen floors of the building. Arranging these will keep me busy for a while.

HG HG HG

At ten thirty, I'm back in the foyer and arranging the last of my flowers on the console tables that line the foyer.

—I have flowers for a Miss Weasley.

I look up, seeing a young girl gazing around at the impressive lobby.

—Sorry?

She points to her clipboard.

—I have a delivery for Miss Weasley.

I roll my eyes. Don't tell me they've duplicated an order of over four hundred Italian red roses. That really would take incompetence to a whole new level.

—I've already taken delivery of the flowers.— I say tiredly, walking towards her. I notice the van outside, but it's not the florist I ordered through.

—Have you?— She looks a bit panicky as she flicks through the papers on her clipboard.

—What have you got?— I ask.

—A bouquet of calla lilies for Miss…— She looks at her clipboard again. —Miss Ginny Weasley.

—I'm Ginny Weasley.

—Cool, I'll be two seconds.— She runs off, returning swiftly. —This place is like Fort Knox!— she exclaims. She hands me the biggest spray of calla lilies I've ever seen, stunning, white, clean flowers surrounded by stacks of deep green foliage.

Understated elegance.

My stomach does a few cartwheels as I sign the delivery girl's paperwork and take the flowers from her, finding the card among the forest of green.

I'm so sorry. Forgive me, please. X

Is he? He already apologised for his inappropriate behavior and look where that got me. I start to wonder how he'd know I'm here, but then I remember him picking out Lusso in my portfolio. It wouldn't take a lot of effort to find out the launch date and figure I would be here. My contentment of yesterday evening, after Harry left the house, is slowly dissipating. He's never going to give up, is he? Well, he can knock himself out. I smile to myself. Knock himself out? Where did that…I flatten that thought immediately.

I place the flowers on the concierge desk.

—Here, Ted. Let's pretty up all this black marble.— He looks up briefly before returning to scratching his head, looking overwhelmed. I leave him to it, getting on with my walk through to ensure everything is in place and ready.

Lavander turns up at five thirty, looking her usual immaculate self, all brown hair, blue eyes and overdone.

—Sorry I'm late. The traffic's a nightmare and there's nowhere to park.— She gazes around. —They're all reserved for guests. What can I do, I'm so excited!— she sings at me, while stroking the walls of the penthouse.

—I'm all done. I just need you to do a walk through to make sure there's nothing that I've missed.— I lead her into the main space.

—Oh my God, Ginny, it looks amazing!

—It's great, isn't it? I've never had such a colossal budget. It was fun spending so much of someone else's money.— We giggle together. —Have you seen the kitchen?— I ask.

—I've not seen it complete. I bet it's incredible.

—It is, go and take a look. I'm going to get myself ready in the spa. I've done everything in the other apartments so concentrate up here. This is where the action will be. Make sure all the cushions are plumped and in place. I want the peppers on the chopping boards shiny. Use Pledge! The mini Dyson is here. Hoover up any stray bits on the bedroom carpets,— I hand her the fully charged, hand held hoover. —Just use your initiative. If there's anything you're not sure of, make a note. Okay?

She grabs the hoover from me.

—I love these things.— she revs the Dyson, posing like a cowboy in a standoff.

—How old are you?— I ask on an eye roll.

She screws her face up, grins and sets off to follow through on my instructions.

HG HG HG

An hour later, after utilising all of Lusso's fancy spa facilities, I'm ready. My dress is creaseless and my hair is behaving. I take a little wander around. This will be my last time here, and it will soon be crowded with business people and high society, so I make the most of my last opportunity to savour the sheer magnificence of the place. It's mind-blowing. I still can't believe this is my work. I smile to myself as I stand in the colossal open space on the first floor. Bi-folding doors lead to an L shaped terrace, with limestone paving, a decked area, sun loungers and a huge Jacuzzi. There's a study, dining room, a huge archway leading into a ridiculously large kitchen, and a back-lit onyx staircase that rises to the four ensuite bedrooms and a massive master suite. The spa, fitness centre and swimming pool, on the ground floor of the building, are exclusive to the residents of Lusso, but the penthouse boasts its own gym. It's stunning. Whoever's brought this place definitely likes the finer things in life and for a cool ten million, they've got it.

I make my way back to the kitchen and find Lavander, still armed with the Dyson.

—All done,— she declares as she hoovers up a stray crumb on the marble worktop.

—Well, let's drink.— I smirk and pick up two glasses of champagne, handing one to Lavander.

—Here's to you, Ginny. Stylish in body and in mind,— She giggles, raising her glass in a toast. We both swig and sigh.

—Wow! This is good.— She looks at the bottle.

—Ca'Del Bosco, Cuvée Annamaria Clementi, 1993. It's Italian, of course.— I raise my brow and Lavander giggles again.

I hear chatter coming from the entrance hall, so I wander out of the kitchen, finding Colin gawping like a goldfish and Albus smiling proudly.

—Ginny, this is some serious special, darling!— Colin runs at me, throwing his arms around my body. He pulls back, looking me up and down. —Love the dress. Very tight.

I wish I could say the same for Colin, who takes colour clash to extreme levels. I squint at his bright blue shirt and red tie combo.

—Put the girl down, Colin. You'll crease her,— Albus grumbles, gently shoving him aside and leaning down to peck me on the cheek. —I'm very proud of you, flower. You've done a marvelous job, and between me and you...— He leans into my ear and whispers. —The developer has hinted they want you on board for the next project in Holland Park.— He winks at me, his wrinkled face wrinkling further. —Now, where's that champagne?

—This way,— I lead them into the huge kitchen, hearing more cooing from Colin. The place really is that special.

—Cheers!— I chant, after handing them all a glass of champagne.

—Cheers!— They all raise their glasses.

I spend a few hours being introduced to high society and explaining my inspiration behind the design. Journalists from architecture and interior magazines swan around taking photographs and generally poking about. Much to my displeasure, they hustle me onto velvet chaise lounge for a shot. Albus drags me from pillar to post, proclaiming his pride and insisting, to anyone that will listen, that I've single handedly put Hogwarts Union on the designers map. I blush profusely, repeatedly playing down his declarations.

I'm thankful when Luna shows up. I usher her into the kitchen, thrusting a glass of champagne in her hand and take another for myself.

—Bit posh, eh?— she muses, gazing around the plush kitchen. —It makes my place look like a cluttered mess.

I laugh at the referral to her cute, homely town house that looks like Cath Kidston has vomited, sneezed and coughed all over it.

—You mean impressive, I'm sure.

—Yes, that too. I couldn't live here though.— she says with no shame at all. I'm not offended. While I'm proud of the finished result, the sheer vastness of the place intimidates me.

—Me either.— I concur.

—I saw Dean earlier.— She downs her champagne, immediately scooping up another from a tray as a waiter passes.

—Oh, I bet that was nice for you.— I tease, imagining Luna hissing and spitting like a cat at poor Dean. It's no less than he deserves.

—No, it wasn't. The part where he told me that you were going out for dinner with him was particularly unpleasant.— She purses her lips at me. —Ginny, what are you thinking? I'm here to threaten you.

—Oh, and there was me thinking you'd come to support your friend in her working triumph.— I raise my eyebrows.

—Pah! Your working life is not an area in which you need support. On the other hand, your personal life is very interesting lately.— She jiggles her eyebrows up and down suggestively. I know what she's getting at, and she's not heard the half of it. Damn Dean as well. We're not even together anymore and he still can't resist winding her up.

I feign a hurt face.

—You needn't worry. I assure you, I'm not going back to that. I'm enjoying being man free, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. Anyway, for the record, Dean's winding you up.— I sip my champagne.

—Not even for tall, handsome, slightly older darkers?— She grins.

I narrow my eyes on her.

—Not even then.— I confirm.

—Oh, don't be such a bore.

—Excuse me?— This time, my hurt expression isn't feigned. Boring? I'm not boring. Luna's Wild! I look at her in disbelief, genuinely hurt by her harsh remark.

I wait for her to back track, but she doesn't. Instead, she's looking over my shoulder with the biggest smirk on her face. Impatient and quite pissed off with her, I swing around to find out what's caught her amused attention.

Oh no!

—He's like a bad penny, isn't he?— she remarks coolly.


	8. Chapter 8

Oh, she has no idea.

I've not even filled her in on any of the developments since she met him at lunch. And here he is again, stood chatting with the acting estate agent, wearing a navy suit and pale blue shirt, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a file. He looks, as always, like a fucking God. And as if he can sense me staring, he looks up and our eyes meet.

—Shit!— I curse, turning back to Luna. She drags her gaze from Potter and onto me, her eyes dancing with delight.

—You know, I was going to go home and cry into my Haagen-Dazs, Bridgette Jones style, but I think I'll just hang around for a bit. You mind?— She sips her drink through her grin, while I snarl at her. —This is not the behavior of someone, supposedly, unmoved by a certain someone, Ginny.— she teases.

—I went to The Manor on Tuesday and nearly slept with him.— I blurt.

—What!— Luna splutters, grabbing a napkin to mop up the trail of champagne that's dripping down her chin.

—He apologised for the text he sent. I went back to The Manor and he had the big guy lock me in a room. He was waiting for me half naked!

—Get out! Oh my God. Who's the big guy?

—Well, he's not a butler. I've no idea what role he plays. Trapping women for Potter, maybe.

—Why haven't you told me this?

—It was a disaster. I ran out when I heard his girlfriend calling him. Potter screwed and turned up at the house last night making demands.— The urgency to bring Luna up to speed has me spitting out the basic facts in a rush.

—Fuck! What sort of demands?— She's shocked. She should be. It's shocking.

—I don't know. The man's an arrogant arse. He asked me how loud I'd scream when he fucks me.

She spits more champagne.

—He what? Fuck, Ginny, he's coming over, he's coming over!— She shifts on the spot, her eyes still skipping with amusement.

Why is he here? I start planning my escape, but before my brain can even instruct my legs to move, I can feel him stood behind me; I can smell him.

—Nice to see you again, Luna.— he drawls. —Ginny?

I remain with my back to him, knowing all too well that if I turn to acknowledge him, I'll be hauled into the hazardous place that is Harry Potter's realm, a place where I struggle to maintain any rational thinking. I drained my reserve tank of strength last night, and I've not had a chance to replenish it yet. This is not good news. He said I wouldn't have to see him again. If I told him what he didn't want to hear, then I would never have to see him again. I met the terms of his demand, so why is he not keeping to his end of the bargain?

Luna's eyes are darting between us, waiting for one of us to say something. I certainly won't be.

—Harry.— She nods at him. —Excuse me. I need to powder my nose.— She places her empty on the worktop and beats feet. I mentally curse her arse to Hell.

He circles around me so he's stood before me.

—You look stunning.— he murmurs.

—You said I wouldn't have to see you again.— I challenge him, ignoring his compliment.

—I didn't know you would be here.

I look at him tiredly.

—You sent me flowers.

—Oh, so I did.— A smile tickles the edge of his lips.

I don't have time for his games. He's really met his match in me.

—Please, excuse me.— I go to side step him, but he moves with me, effectively blocking my path.

—I was hoping for a tour.

—I'll get Lavander. She'll be happy to show you around.

—I would prefer you.

—You don't get a fuck with a tour.— I snap.

He frowns.

—Will you watch your mouth?

—Sorry,— I mutter indignantly. —And put my seat back when you drive my car.

He grin's a real boyish grin, and I'm even more furious with myself when my heart speeds up. I mustn't let him see the affect he has on me. —And leave my music alone!

—I'm sorry.— His eyes flicker with mischievousness. It's so bloody sexy. —Are you okay? You look a little shaky.— He reaches out, softly running his finger down my bare arm. —Is something affecting you?

I jerk away.

—Not at all,— I need to get off this line of conversation. —Did you want a tour?

—I would love a tour.— He looks pleased with himself.

On a huff, I lead him out of the kitchen and into the massive living space.

—Lounge,— I wave my hand about in the general space around us. —You've seen the kitchen,— I say over my shoulder as I walk through the open space and onto the terrace. —View,— I maintain my tired tone, hearing him laugh lightly behind me.

I lead him back through the lounge to the workout room, not saying a word as we trek through the penthouse. Harry shakes hands, greeting various people on our travels, but I don't pause to allow him time to stop and chat. I march on in a bid to get this over with as soon as possible. Damn this place for being so big.

—Gym,— I state, walking in and abruptly leaving again when he enters. I head for the stairs, hearing him laugh behind me. I take the back-lit, onyx staircase, proceeding to open and shut doors, one at a time, while declaring what lies beyond. We reach the pièce de résistance, the master suite, and I wave my hand round at the dressing room and en-suite bathroom. The place really does deserve more passion and time than I'm devoting.

—You're an expert tour guide, Ginny.— he teases, regarding one of my favourite pieces of art. —Care to enlighten me on the artist?

—Guiseppe Cavalli,— I toss the name at him, folding my arms over my chest.

—It's good. Is there any particular reason why you chose this artist?— He's blatantly trying to temp me into conversation.

I stare at his broad, suit covered back, his hands resting lightly in his trouser pockets, his lean legs slightly spread. My eyes are very pleased, but my brain is in a jumbled mess. I sigh and decide, wisely or not, to indulge him. Guiseppe Cavalli most definitely deserves my time and enthusiasm. I drop my arms and walk over to join him in front of the piece.

—He was known as the master of light,— I say, and he looks at me with genuine interest. —He didn't think that the subject was of any importance. It didn't matter what he photographed. To him, the subject was always the light. He concentrated on controlling it. See?— I point to the reflections on the water. —These rowing boats, as lovely as they are, are just boats, but see how he manipulates the light? He didn't care for the boats. He cared for the light surrounding the boats. He makes inanimate objects interesting, makes you look at the photograph in a different…well, a different light, I suppose.— I tilt my head and observe the picture. I never tire of it. As simple as it seems, the more you look at it, the more you get it.

After a few moments silence, I rip my eyes away from the canvas, finding Harry staring at me. Our eyes meet. He's chewing his bottom lip. I know I won't be able to say no again if he pushes this.

I'm all out of willpower. I've never felt so desired than when I'm with him, and I keep trying to fool myself that the feeling is unwanted.

—Please don't.— My voice is barely audible.

—Don't what?

—You know what. You said I wouldn't have to see you again.

—I lied,— He's not ashamed. —I can't stay away from you, so you do have to see me again…and again… and again.— He finishes the last part of his declaration slowly and clearly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

I gasp, instinctively backing away from him.

—You persistently fighting this is only making me more determined to prove that you want me.— He starts slowly pursuing me, taking slow, cautious steps forward, maintaining his deep eye contact as he does.

—I'm making it my mission objective. I'll do anything.

I stop my retreat when I feel the bed at the back of my knees. In two more strides, he'll be upon me, and the thought of imminent contact in enough to snap me out of the trance he sends me into.

—Stop,— I hold my hand up in front of me, halting him in his tracks. —You don't even know me.— I blurt, in a desperate attempt to make him see how crazy this is.

—I know you're impossibly beautiful,— He starts towards me again. —I know what I feel, and I know that you're feeling it too.— We're body to body now, and my heart is hammering in my throat. —So, tell me, Ginny. What have I missed?

I try to control my rushed breaths, but with my chest heaving and my body physically shaking, I'm struggling. I drop my head, ashamed at the tears gathering in my eyes. Why am I crying? Is he enjoying reducing me to tears? This is hideous. He's so desperate to bed me, he's resorting to stalking me, and I'm crying because I'm so weak. He makes me weak, and he has no right to.

I feel his hand slide under my chin, and the warmth would be welcome, if I didn't think he was such an arsehole right now. He tugs at my jaw to raise my head. When our eyes meet, he winces at my tears.

—I'm sorry.— he whispers softly, sliding his hand around to cup my cheek, slowly stroking the rolling tears away with his thumb. His expression is pure torment. Good. It should be.

I find my voice.

—You said you would leave me alone.— I look at him questioningly as he continues to smooth his thumb over my face. Why is he chasing me like this? He's clearly unhappy in his relationship, but it doesn't make this right.

—I lied, I'm sorry. I told you, I can't stay away.

—You already said that you're sorry, but here you are again. Am I to expect flowers tomorrow?— I don't hide my sarcasm.

His thumb pauses and he drops his head. Now he's ashamed. But then his head lifts, our eyes connect and his gaze drops to my lips. Oh, no. Please, no. I'll never be able to stop this. He begins searching my eyes, looking for any sign that I'm going to block him. Am I? I know I should, but I don't think I can. His lips part and they slowly start lowering to mine. I hold my breath. As our lips brush, only very lightly, my body gives way, prompting my hands to fly up and bunch his jacket in my fists. He growls his approval as he moves his hands to the base on my spine and pushes my body closer to him, our lips hovering over each other, our breaths mingling. We both shake uncontrollably.

—Have you ever felt like this?— he breathes, running his lips across my cheek to my ear.

—Never,— I answer honestly. My short, gasping breath is unrecognisable.

He grips the lobe of my ear between his teeth and tugs gently, letting the flesh drag through his bite.

—Are you ready to stop fighting it now?— he whispers, tracing down the edge of my ear with the tip of his tongue, working his way back up and brushing his lips lightly over the sensitive flesh under my ear. His hot breath causes a rush of heat to crash between my thighs. I can't fight this anymore.

—Oh God,— I breathe, and his lips return to mine to hush me. He takes them gently, and I accept it, letting our tongues roll and lap together at a steady, non-urgent pace. It's too good. My whole body is on fire, and I realise my hands are aching from gripping his jacket too hard. I release them, moving them to the back of his neck to stroke the dark hair on his nape.

He moans, releasing my mouth.

—Is that a yes?— He fixes me with his sludgy eyes.

I know I'm supposed to answer here.

—Yes.

Nodding his head, only very slightly, he kisses my nose, my cheek, my forehead and returns to my mouth.

—I need to have all of you, Ginny. Say I can have all of you.

All of me? What does he mean by all of me? Mind? Soul? But he doesn't mean that, does he? No, he wants all of my body. And right now, my conscience has completely failed me. I need to get this man out of my system. He needs to get me out of his system.

—Take me.— I say quietly against his lips.

—Oh, I will.

Keeping his lips firmly against mine, he wraps one arm around my waist and splays the other across the back of my head. Lifting me from my feet, he deepens his kiss and walks me across the room until my back is against a wall. Our tongues dance together wildly, my hands moving down his back. I want closer contact. I grab the front of his jacket and start pushing it off of his shoulders, forcing him to release his hold of me. He keeps our lips locked, stepping back slightly to give me space to rid him of the obstruction to his body. I toss it on the floor, grab his shirt and yank him towards me, all my previous battling of conscious long forgotten. I have to have him.

Our bodies smash together and he pushes me up the wall, devouring my mouth.

—Fucking hell, Ginny.— he pants through strangled breaths. —You make me crazy.

He rolls his hips, pushing his erection into me, milking a small cry from my lips. I fist my hands in his hair, moaning in invitation. This is way past stoppable now. My body has gone into cruise control, the stop button lost somewhere in the land of lust. I feel his palms rest on the front of my thighs, my dress bunched in his fists and pulled up over my waist in one swift tug. His hips roll again and I whimper. I need more. Christ, I don't know how I've resisted this. He bites my bottom lip and releases me, pulling his face away and looking me straight in the eyes. He rolls his hips again, grinding hard against my core.

My head falls back on a deep moan, giving him open access to my throat, which he takes full advantage of, licking, sucking and lapping at the hollow. I could weep with pleasure. But then I hear voices coming from outside of the room and reality comes crashing down around me. What am I doing? I'm in the master suite of the penthouse, with my dress around my waist and Harry at my throat. There are hundreds of people milling about down stairs. Someone could walk in at any moment. Someone will walk in at any moment.

—Harry,— I pant, trying to get his attention. —Harry, people are coming, you have to stop.— I wriggle a little, causing his erection to hit me in just the right spot. I bang my head against the wall to try and halt the stab of pleasure it causes.

He groans, long and low.

—I'm not letting you go, not now.

—We need to stop.

—No.— he growls.

Oh, flipping heck. Anyone could walk through that door.

—We'll do this later.— I try and pacify him. Ibneed to get him off of me.

—That leaves you too much time to change your mind.— He nibbles my neck.

—I won't change my mind,— I grip his jaw, pulling his face to mine so we're nose to nose. I look him squarely in his sludgy pools of green. —I will not change my mind.

He scans my eyes, looking for the reassurance he needs, but I couldn't be any more resolute. I want this. Yes, I might have time to evaluate the situation, but right now, I'm certain I'll see this through. He's just way too tempting to resist, and God I've tried.

He kisses me hard on the lips and pulls away.

—Sorry, I can't risk it.— He scoops me up into his arms and stalks towards the bathroom.

—What? They'll want to see in there too.— He can't be serious?

—I'll lock the door. No screaming.— He looks at me on a small smirk.

I'm shocked, but I laugh.

—You have no shame.

—No. My cock has been aching since last Friday, I finally have you in my arms and you've seen sense. I'm going nowhere and neither are you.


End file.
